


flowers for your grave

by starkswinterfelling



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Author!Grantaire, Castle AU, Description of corpses and murder, Detective!Enjolras, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-03-12 00:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 46,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13536015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkswinterfelling/pseuds/starkswinterfelling
Summary: R. Grantaire is a famous crime novelist, struggling with severe writer's block and unable to find a new subject for his next book. All of this changes when he meets homicide detective Enjolras from the NYPD, who tells him there's a murderer on the loose, using Grantaire's books as inspiration for his kills. Grantaire teams up with the department to help them catch the killer, but finds an unexpected muse in the beautiful and impressive Detective Enjolras.A Castle AU that I'm shocked doesn't already exist, starring Grantaire as Rick Castle, and Enjolras as Detective Beckett.





	1. An Angel's Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I blame Anna entirely, because once I had this idea in my head, I couldn't let it go. So both thank you and fuck you to her. This is all her fault.
> 
> If you know how Castle goes, you won't be in for too many surprises here. It should be pretty obvious which characters are which from the show, and I won't be straying _too_ much from Castle canon. This entire chapter is based on the first ever episode, and is just meant to help get you all acquainted with the story. 
> 
> That being said there should still be some surprises for you in there, in an effort to keep you all on your toes - and just to cut it down. This fic is going to be a MONSTER because there are eight seasons of this TV show, and even if I cut out most of it (which I'm planning to), it's still going to end up hideously long. Plus I still haven't entirely made a detailed plan about what bits are being kept in and which bits aren't - loads of episodes and ideas stolen from episodes are going to be out of order, but if you're a Castle fan you should be able to recognise where all the inspiration is coming from.
> 
> What I think lends Castle so well to this AU is how well it switches between comedy and drama, and how when it gets dramatic it gets soap opera levels of dramatic and ridiculous - and basically it was just screaming for a Les Mis fic to be made out of it.
> 
> Enjoy.

It was a rare opportunity for Grantaire to get a moment to himself at one of these events. It was only natural, with it being _his_ book launch after all - the latest novel in the best-selling crime series about private investigator Nicholas Heat, and the long awaited instalment after his last cliffhanger in _Heat Wave_.

The wait to know what had happened to the titular character’s love interest - or at least he’s been told - has been keeping half the city of New York awake at night for over a year now. But Grantaire had finished the book over 9 months ago - so it was a little strange, revisiting it all in such a public way, when in his own mind he’d put the story to rest. To him, this was already all over and done with - but here he was, sat at a table a little way from the hub of the party, taking in quietly the excited buzz of the New York elite hoping to find out what happened next to their favourite investigator.

For the first time since he sent over his first draft for editing, Grantaire felt his stomach flip nervously at the prospect of people reading it.

“You sure you’re ready for this today?”

He lifted his head a little to see Jean Prouvaire stood just behind his seat, his concerned face looking down at him. Grantaire was only a little confused at the concern, because he was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything crazy enough to bring on his publisher’s wrath this time.

Fuck, had he finally cracked and started blacking out? God only knew what he was capable of when he wasn’t in control of his senses.

“Whatever you’re mad at me for I promise I’ll pay for it,” Grantaire blurted out - but Jehan’s face only screwed up more in confusion.

“Wait - what?” He shook his head. “No, you idiot, I’m not mad at you for anything.” He paused. “… _Should_ I be mad at you?”

 Grantaire shook his head vigorously, his black curls bouncing. “Not this time. I hope.” He shrugged, standing up from his seat so that he wasn’t being talked down to. It was an old annoyance of his that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get over; the perils of being a short kid in a U.S. high school.

 But Jehan, despite Grantaire’s attempted deflection, was still watching him with that odd look in his eyes. It was that same look that he always got when he wanted Grantaire to tell him something personal - which never really spelled out good things for Grantaire. 

 “Alright, out with it Jehan,” Grantaire sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I can tell you’re dying to ask me something serious - so let me have it.”

 And Jehan, bless him, just rolled his eyes as if this whole exchange was proving harder than it needed to be. Which, granted, Grantaire had a tendency to make things more complicated just for the sake of it - Jehan really had the patience of a saint being a publisher to such an erratic and frankly difficult author. 

 “Honestly, I just want to check that you’re feeling yourself at the moment,” Jehan said bluntly, but with that softness he always had despite how straight forward his words were. He tucked an arm companionably in Grantaire’s, and Grantaire let him, knowing better than to fight it. “Better for me to know now so I can do as much damage control in advance as I need to.”

 Grantaire snorted, and the two started to walk slowly to wherever it was he was expected to be; he’d stopped asking questions at these sorts of events years ago. “Your faith in my mental stability really makes me feel special, you know that?” he said lightly. “I don’t know where this sudden concern has come from, but I’ve been doing just fine.” 

 Grantaire pointed at the poster they’d found themselves walking by - a huge mock-up of the cover - _Deadly Heat_ \- already covered with snippets of five star reviews, heaping praise upon his latest work. “If another book predicted to be on the New York Times best-sellers list doesn’t scream ‘I’m a perfectly functioning human’, I don’t know what does.”

 But Jehan didn’t bite at this attempted deflection.

 “So you’re telling me that I _shouldn’t_ be concerned that you’ve just killed off the protagonist of said best-selling series?”

 Grantaire risked a sideways glance to find Jehan’s judgemental eyebrow raise, and immediately had to look away from his friend slash publisher slash ex-boyfriend as he replied. God, he really needed to start working with people who didn’t know him so well - then at least he wouldn’t feel so guilty when he had to start lying to them.

 “Worried? You should be excited!” Grantaire wrapped his arm around Jehan enthusiastically. “Think of all the new things I can write now - I thought you’d be all about it! Stretching my creative limbs - making new worlds and characters to play with - all that shit.”

 If anything, it was Jehan’s knowing and comforting smile that made it all a bit worse. It’d be better if he was angry - people being frustrated at him, Grantaire could deal with - shouting, sniping, verbal abuse, you name it, it bounced off him. But sad eyes and sympathy was a whole other creature that he had no idea how to combat.

 “I’d be happy for you being creative if I was actually seeing any evidence of it,” Jehan said.

 And Grantaire didn’t know how to reply to that.

 “Plus - Bahorel said…well he said he’s seen you drinking a lot more recently.”

  _That rat bastard_ , Grantaire thought off-handedly.

 “Well Bahorel needs to start learning to mind his own business,” Grantaire replied, still avoiding making eye contact. “Who says that isn’t all part of the process?”

 There was that eyebrow raise again. “Drinking before 11am shouldn’t be part of anyone’s process.” Jehan sighed again and just patted his arm, starting to pull away. “I have things to do, and you have people to see - just - call me if you need me, okay? Or at the very least talk to Bahorel. It’ll do you some good.”

 Grantaire couldn’t really bring himself to give his friend any parting words; something about the whole thing making his throat close up, choked. He opted instead to turn around and throw himself full force into the launch party, and trying his best to forget that the whole unfortunate conversation had ever happened. He was doing quite well at it too, for a while, until that little niggle in the back of his brain started to return, just like it always did.

 It was a little while later when he was finally able to break away from the press, fans and socialites vying for his attention and track down Bahorel. Naturally, he was in the first place he looked - a couple of drinks deep at the open bar. 

 “So what exactly have you been telling Prouvaire about me?”

 Bahorel looked up from the drink he’d been happily knocking back. “What?” he asked bluntly, looking a little confused, but Grantaire wasn’t deterred.

 “Only Jehan had some interesting things to say just then,” he continued, sitting down on the stool next to his friend. “About how I’ve been moping around the apartment, drinking in the mornings, and generally engaging in more debauchery than usual.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or something like that.”

Bahorel, unashamed, just snorted into his drink. “Oh - _that_.” He laughed and took another sip. “Well, was I lying?”

 Okay, _ouch_. Grantaire really needed to consider bucking up and finally kicking Bahorel out of his apartment if he was going to keep brutally calling him out like that. The fucker stayed there for free - the least he could do was tacitly support all of his unhealthy coping mechanisms. 

 Grantaire just scowled half-heartedly instead. “I just assumed we had some sort of roommate confidentiality agreement.”

 “Well I didn’t sign shit,” Bahorel said happily, completely unaffected by his friend’s bad mood. “If there’s anything I teach you in this life, let it be this - always get it in writing.” He clapped Grantaire on the back, and Grantaire couldn’t help the small smirk forming at it.

 “Ex-wife number three teach you that?” he asked, and Bahorel barked out a laugh.

 “Don’t remind me, I’d like to keep this drink down.”

 There was a beat of silence between them as Grantaire hailed down the bartender and ordered another drink for himself. Bahorel watched his friend for a moment thoughtfully, before starting slowly, “You know if there’s anything wrong you could tell me, right?” 

 At this, all Grantaire could do was shoot Bahorel an exasperated look. “What?” Bahorel asked loudly. “No pretence of traditional masculinity here. We can talk about our feelings, bro.”

 Grantaire rolled his eyes. “It’s not masculinity that’s the problem. It’s more that I find talking about my feelings gross and yucky.”

 Now it was Bahorel’s turn to roll his eyes. “Poetic, dude. You should jot that down for the next book.”

 And yet again, this conversation was hitting a little too close to home. “It’s about as good as anything I’ve written recently.” Bahorel shot him another look, but Grantaire just waved him off. He didn’t really want to get into all that shit again after the last conversation with Jehan. It was hard enough having one person he cared about know that he was struggling - he wasn’t sure he’d be able to deal with two. Especially not the one that lived with him.

 “Enough with this depressing shit,” Grantaire proclaimed, sitting up a little straighter. “How’s the party treating you? Suitably glamorous?”

 If Bahorel was concerned by the quick change in the conversation topic, he didn’t show it, happily turning his attention back to the scene in front of him. “Oh yeah - very well-stocked bar. This scotch is seeing me through nicely. You?”

 “Oh you know, same old,” Grantaire shrugged. “Once you’ve signed one pair of tits you’ve signed them all.”

 Bahorel laughed. “That’s some sad shit, bro. No-one should get tired of boobs.”

 “Nah, it’s all the same old shit,” Grantaire said, laughing in his reply. “It’s just starting to get a little stale - I keeping wanting something exciting to happen at one of these things. Or at least, I just want someone to say something _new_ , you know?”

 “Mr. Grantaire?”

 The voice cut off what would have inevitably turned into a vaguely incoherent, alcohol-induced ramble, but it just seemed to prove whatever point Grantaire would have been making anyway. He gave Bahorel a knowing look before turning to face the voice, his charming smile already forming.

 And - well - shit.

 He faltered only slightly when he found the owner of the voice to be one of the most handsome men he’d ever seen. A youthful, angular face topped with artistically coiffed blonde curls - a slim frame and a deliciously pouted mouth. Grantaire’s mouth went a little dry just at the sight of him, but that didn’t stop him leaning forward, a flirtatious glint in his eye, when asking, “Where would you like me to sign?”

 The man didn’t even blink as he held up a badge in front of Grantaire’s face. “Mr. Grantaire, I’m Detective Enjolras with the NYPD. I’m here to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier today.”

 A beat of silence.

 “…Well, _that’s_ new,” Grantaire heard Bahorel say, somewhere behind him.

 

* * *

 

Of all the ways Grantaire had envisioned leaving his latest book launch, he supposed being escorted out by a beautiful blond was about as much as he’d hoped for. Granted, he hadn’t expected the beautiful blond to be a homicide detective bringing him in for questioning about a murder - but then again, life threw you all sorts of curveballs. 

It hadn’t taken them all that long to get to the station, and Grantaire soon found himself alone in an interrogation room, the detective depositing him there before leaving swiftly. All in all, it had been a bit of a let down so far. To say he’d written so many crime novels, Grantaire always imagined police interviews a little bit more exciting than this; more intense back and forth, less twiddling of thumbs. 

But thankfully he didn’t have to wait too long though before door flew open, and the detective was back again. He was just as stern-looking as before, his steely blue eyes firmly on the files in his hands, as he took his seat opposite Grantaire. 

“You’ve got quite the record for an author, Mr. Grantaire,” the detective started, still not looking at Grantaire.

“Uh,” Grantaire started, but the detective pressed on.

“- Disorderly conduct, resisting arrest -“ Finally, the other man’s eyes lifted from his papers to bore intensely into Grantaire’s own. “- and stealing a police horse?”

Grantaire smirked. “Borrowed, technically.”

The detective raised an eyebrow. “Nude?”

“It was spring.”

The man’s look was unimpressed as he turned his eyes back down. “And somehow the charges were dropped each time?” he asked, his voice suddenly as steely as his gaze, and Grantaire’s smile only widened.

“The mayor’s a fan, what can I say?” Grantaire said, leaning back in his chair a little, stretching his legs out. “Just one of those perks, I guess, Detective…?”

“Enjolras,” was the pointed reply, and Grantaire thought that that part of the conversation was over until Detective Enjolras lifted his head again and held Grantaire under his intense gaze.

“Your rogue bad boy vibe might help you charm your way out of past charges, but it won’t work in this room with me, Mr. Grantaire,” he started, his voice even, but passionate. It held Grantaire’s attention and his tongue from interrupting. “I care about my work, and my work means making sure people guilty of crimes pay their due. I don’t have time for people who get in the way of that, and I certainly don’t have respect for those who brag about it.” He paused. “So you’re either going to help me today, or you’re going to be someone who gets in my way - and you _really_ don’t want to be that guy. Understood?”

It wasn’t often that Grantaire kept his thoughts to himself (even when he _really_ ought to), but this was one of those rare occasions where his sense of self-preservation kicked in, and he bit his tongue. Enjolras seemed to take this moment of silence as acquiescence, and said a quiet, “Good,” before beginning to shuffle all his files around.

“Does the name Allison Tisdale mean anything to you, Mr Grantaire?” the detective asked, and Grantaire shrugged his shoulders.

“Can’t say it does,” he replied jovially.

Detective Enjolras pushed a picture across the table. Grantaire glanced down at it, but nothing about the girl’s face seemed familiar to him in the slightest. 

“Do you recognise her from this picture at all? From a book signing or any kind of fan event?”

Grantaire shrugged again. “Couldn’t say for sure - I’ve signed a lot of books for a lot of people over the years.” He chanced another glance down and regarded her smiling face. “She’s pretty.”

“She’s dead,” Enjolras corrected bluntly, pulling the picture back to his file and replacing it with another. “How about Daryl Fisk? A small claims lawyer, originally from New Jersey.”

Once again the name and man in the picture seemed completely unfamiliar to him, this one being of your standard balding middle-aged white guy, and he told as much to the detective.

“And you’re asking me about them because…?” Grantaire asked.

Detective Enjolras pulled out two more photos from his file, speaking as he did. “These seemed at first to be two completely unrelated murders - that is, until we looked at the crime scene from Miss Tisdale’s case.”

The photo he placed in front of Grantaire wasn’t particularly gory, but showed the dead girl in her entirety - she completely naked, but covered in flowers and scattered petals, carefully and meticulously placed over and around her body. It sent a little flush through Grantaire’s body as he realised - 

“ _Flowers For Your Grave_ ,” he said quietly, picking the picture up and examining it more carefully. Enjolras’ eyes flashed to his, sparking in interest, watching Grantaire carefully as he placed the second photo down in front of him. 

“And this was the scene at Mr Fisk’s office, from a few weeks ago,” he said, keeping his eyes on Grantaire as he picked the photo up. This one showed the man face down on the floor, surrounded by a detailed satanic-looking circle - and if Grantaire’s interest had piqued with the first photo, it only increased tenfold with this second one.

Enjolras continued, “This, as I’m sure you’ll recognise, is also a replica of a murder scene from another one of your books, _Hell Hath No Fury_.”

There was a moment of silence between them as Grantaire took in the two photos. Enjolras continued to watch intently as Grantaire placed the two pictures down, and, without being able to help himself, smirked.

“Looks like I have a fan,” he said, leaning forward onto the table. Detective Enjolras’ face fell imperceptibly, but it was only a moment before the steely look in his eyes was back and boring into Grantaire's eyes once more.

“A really deranged fan,” Enjolras said, but Grantaire shook his head happily.

“Oh, you don’t look deranged,” he said, watching as Enjolras’ stare went from intrigued to baffled. Grantaire tried to ignore the feeling of glee he was getting at winding up Detective Enjolras, but he was really quite helpless to stop it at this point. 

“Come on - _Hell Hath No Fury_? That book was garbage. Even my hardcore fans don’t read that one.” Grantaire’s eyes glinted mischievously as he continued. “I never would have pegged you as a reader of mine, but I guess it’s a wide church, and we accept all types. It’s actually nice to know people on the force get a kick out of reading my little crime novels - somehow makes it all more satisfying.”

Enjolras did not look the least bit impressed by this teasing. 

“It’s my job to try and spot patterns in murders and identify them, Mr. Grantaire,” he said, his voice barely betraying the frustration he was working to conceal. “And I’m very good at my job.”

With this he snapped the file shut and dropped his gaze from Grantaire - and Grantaire had to smother the little flare of disappointment he felt at losing the attention of all that fury. 

“Have you ever received any disturbing fan mail, Mr. Grantaire?” Enjolras asked evenly, back to the detached questions from before.

“I have,” Grantaire said, still smiling. “Though you’d have to narrow down what you mean by disturbing.”

“Sometimes in cases like this we find that the murderer tries to get in contact -“

“- with the object of their obsession, yes,” Grantaire cut Enjolras off, much to the other man’s disdain. He explained, “I know a little bit about psychopathic methodologies. Occupational hazard.”

Enjolras made a little noise of acknowledgement, but it didn’t sound a happy one. “So you won’t have any objections to us searching your mail?” he asked, collecting his things and standing up.

“Knock yourself out,” Grantaire replied, watching the other man leave. He was about to let him go without anything more said between them - but, Grantaire being Grantaire, he couldn’t help himself -

“Could I get a copy?”

Detective Enjolras stopped in his tracks. “I’m sorry?”

“A copy,” Grantaire repeated, gesturing at the file. “Of the pictures.”

There was a heavy silence between the two of them as they stared at each other.

“You…” Enjolras started slowly, “want copies of murder scene photos?”

Grantaire nodded, grinning. “What, that’s gotta be like, some kind of trophy for a crime author, right? I want to rub it in Patterson’s face the next time I see him - he’ll be so jealous.”

There was another silence as Enjolras looked at him, his mouth hung a little open, before he turned on his heel and swiftly left the room without another word.

Grantaire sighed.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

 

* * *

 

“Holy shit, how many fans does your boy have?” Courfeyrac groaned as he set down another box of mail. 

Their debrief room was full of similar boxes, as they’d run out of space to try and keep it contained to their team’s small corner of desks. As was often the way with police work, sometimes a lead ended up looking like they were taking steps backwards when they were faced with the unholy amount of work they were going to have to do. 

Courfeyrac and Joly had been hauling boxes most of this morning after they’d arrived, but Joly had begged off the job in the last hour, joining Enjolras in reading the letters, saying the carrying was straining his back.

“He’s not my boy,” Enjolras muttered distractedly, not lifting his eyes from the letter he was skimming, but Courfeyrac just laughed.

“Sure,” Courfeyrac said, rolling his eyes and falling gracefully into his chair. “And we’ll all just ignore the fact that you _insisted_ on picking him up last week even though Joly and I were closer.”

Enjolras scowled. “Don’t you have boxes to be carrying?”

“Fuck you.”

“You can’t lie to us, Enjolras,” Joly said, leaning over from his own cubicle, mug of coffee in hand. 

“Yes, but I _can_ tell you to start helping Courfeyrac carry boxes again, so think about that.”

This quieted Joly, whose eyes widened comically at Courfeyrac, and he moved back to his own desk, sipping his coffee.

“To say you interrogate criminals professionally, you’ve not really learned how to deflect very well,” Courfeyrac said, standing up again, but Enjolras didn’t deign that with a reply and only rolled his eyes. 

He felt Courfeyrac come up behind him, and Enjolras allowed a moment to look away from the letters and up at his colleague. Courfeyrac’s expression, teasing just a moment ago, was serious as he looked down at the work laid out in front of Enjolras. “Any leads?” he asked, and Enjolras felt much more comfortable as their attention turned back to their work.

“Not so far,” he said with a little sigh. “Just the usual sort of stuff you’d imagine from fan mail, I suppose.” Enjolras frowned a little. “Not all of it savoury, but nothing that would imply any sort of intentions of committing murders.”

Courfeyrac made a displeased sort of sound and laid a companionable hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Did we hear anything back from the lab?” he asked, and Enjolras shook head head.

“No sign for any DNA or prints, just like Fisk,” Enjolras replied. “They’re careful, whoever they are.” He turned around in his chair to look up at Courfeyrac. “Did you find anything about any potential links between Fisk and Tisdale?”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “None, apart from your boy.”

Enjolras’ face dropped immediately.

“If you call him ‘my boy’ one more time -“

Joly coughed politely as he walked up to them both, cutting off Enjolras. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

Both Courfeyrac and Enjolras spun quickly and followed Joly’s eyeline to Captain Valjean’s office - where they found the Captain stood talking with none other than Grantaire himself. What on earth they could be talking about, Enjolras didn’t know, but whatever it was it seemed to be going well, as they were both smiling and - _Jesus Christ, they were shaking hands._

“What the hell is he doing here?” Enjolras grit out, as Courfeyrac’s face brightened.

“Well would you look at that,” Courfeyrac started, turning to Joly with a shit-eating grin, which was returned in equal measure.

“Don’t,” Enjolras warned, slamming down the letter he was holding with a little bit more force than was necessary. “I’m going to see what’s going on here.” And he stalked from his desk to the Captain’s office, leaving an amused Joly and Courfeyrac in his wake.

To his credit, he knocked on the door as gently as he could muster, despite the fact his body felt like a tightly wound spring - he seemed the perfect picture of composure as he stepped into the office to the Captain’s happy greeting.

“Ah, Detective Enjolras! Just the person I wanted,” Valjean started cheerfully. “You’ll remember, Mr. Grantaire from earlier this week.”

Enjolras allowed himself to look over at Grantaire for the first time, who smirked and gave a little wave. Something in Enjolras tightened, and he had to hold back a grimace as he turned back to face his boss. “How could I forget, Sir.”

Valjean smiled. “Well you’ll be happy to hear that Mr. Grantaire has very kindly offered to help us with the investigation.”

Enjolras blinked. 

“Really?” he asked, pointedly ignoring Grantaire, who was still smirking from his corner.

“The least I could do, really,” Enjolras heard him say, and Valjean nodded along.

“Considering the nature of the crime scenes, I think it’s a good idea - don’t you, Detective Enjolras?” Valjean said, sitting back down behind his desk and looking up at Enjolras.

“We…certainly won’t turn away any help with potential leads,” Enjolras offered diplomatically, and Valjean seemed satisfied enough with that answer.

“Excellent,” he said, smiling between the two of them. “Detective Enjolras, please show Mr. Grantaire around and get him settled - and let’s solve this case.”

Enjolras nodded politely at his boss before turning round to Grantaire, gesturing at him to follow him out. He was still smirking that ridiculous smirk, and it made something twist angrily in Enjolras’ gut. 

If he’d learned anything from his interview with the author the previous week, it was that he had no real respect for serious investigations of this nature - and Enjolras had no desire trying to please a self-indulgent rich guy who thought he could drop in on murder investigations just because he had influential friends. No - he had important work to do, and dragging along dead-weight who wouldn’t take it seriously was not part of his job description.

Naturally, this was the sort of monologue that he fumed about in his head as he silently led an amused Grantaire back to his team’s corner of desks. Courfeyrac and Joly, thankfully, had sat back down at their own stations, and were admirably pretending like they hadn’t been spying on everything that had been happening since Enjolras had stalked over to the Captain’s office.

“Mr. Grantaire, this is my team,” Enjolras started coolly, gesturing at his colleagues, who were now standing up to greet their visitor. “Detective Courfeyrac, and Detective Joly, who work closely with me on our serious homicide cases. Guys, this is Mr. Grantaire - he’ll be joining us as an advisor and reference point for our investigation.” 

Ever the consummate professionals, neither Courfeyrac or Joly’s expression shifted at this news, but Enjolras could tell both of them were good to burst with intrigue and amusement at this new development. Maybe he’d buy them both some decent coffee later as a thank you for not making a scene in front of Grantaire.

“Oh - no need for the mister, you can just call me Grantaire. Or R,” Grantaire said, shaking both Courfeyrac’s and Joly’s outstretched hands with a charming smile. 

“We’re happy to have you,” Courfeyrac said jovially, and probably sincerely too - Enjolras had never known Courfeyrac to turn down the opportunity to make a new friend. “One more set of hands helping us sort through this mail is welcomed right now, trust me.” 

Courfeyrac put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and started to direct him towards the briefing room, chatting happily along the way. Enjolras sighed, and he let his eyes fall closed, contemplating for a moment how his day had ended up like this. He opened them eventually to find Joly watching him with his big eyes over the top of his coffee mug.

“You’ve got to admit, it’s a _little_ funny,” Joly started, but Enjolras just shook his head, sitting back down at his desk.

“Don’t, just - don’t.”

 

* * *

 

 

It took a good few days before Grantaire found himself alone with Detective Enjolras again, sorting through his fan mail in the briefing room - plastic gloves and everything. 

The station wasn’t particularly busy, but there always seemed to be someone walking through, and Detectives Joly and Courfeyrac were never too far away. The other two men seemed to be an unexpected perk of offering to help with the investigation; they were both easy-going in a way their colleague was not, and made Grantaire feel genuinely welcome, which was nice in a way Grantaire hadn’t anticipated. 

But still, Grantaire hadn’t really come here to make new friends, and however nice they were, he was much more interested in spending a little more time getting to know the cop who seemed to actively dislike him. Bahorel would call him a masochist - Grantaire preferred to see himself as uniquely adventurous. And besides, it had actually been his roommate that had convinced him to come back to the station in the first place, Grantaire mused and he thought back to the night of the launch party.

It was certainly unusual to find a night recently where Bahorel would rock up to the apartment drunk and find Grantaire completely sober - and because of it, Bahorel had taken a brief moment to pause and contemplate the scene after he’d stumbled through the door. Then he seemed to suddenly remember that the last time he’d seen his friend was being escorted out his own book launch by a cop, and he abruptly changed his direction from his bedroom to the couch, crashing ungracefully next to Grantaire.

“Didn’t get locked up then?” Bahorel had murmured, and Grantaire had let out a loud laugh.

“No, not this time,” he said, patting Bahorel on his arm.

“Then what the fuck happened?”

“Some serial killer is using my books like a DIY pinterest hack,” Grantaire sighed, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do you think I could get them persecuted for plagiarism too, if they’re caught?” he asked, idly, but Bahorel was still very much caught up with the first sentence.

“Dude…what the fuck,” he managed to slur out and Grantaire could only shrug.

“Interesting night, I guess. I wish you’d seen the pictures - you’d have got a kick out of them.”

Bahorel looked down at his friend with mild concern. “Did they think you’d done it?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Nah - they mostly just wanted to look through my mail, to see if they could find if the guy’s written to me. Sucks they didn’t need anything else, though - I kind of want to know how it ends.”

By this point, Bahorel had also sunk down deep into the couch cushions and was lazily staring up at the ceiling like his friend. “Just go back then, dude.”

Grantaire turned his head to face him. “Huh?”

“Tell ‘em you’ll help out if you’re that interested,” Bahorel shrugged. “It’ll get you out and doing…crime shit. Creative juices, you know.”

And as drunk as he was, Bahorel had made some sort of sense to Grantaire - surely with a few strings pulled he could convince the right people that he’d only be a help to the investigation. And Bahorel had been right that he needed to get out of the house - and what better way than to get some hands-on inspiration for his next novel?

Truly, sometimes the drunkest words offer the sagest advice.

“Bahorel, you’re a genius,” Grantaire had whispered into the dark apartment after some silence between them.

“I fucking know,” Bahorel had whispered back; his last words before promptly passing out. 

It hadn’t taken long after that for Grantaire to figure out how he was going to needle his way into the investigation - a couple of schmoozy calls with the Mayor (a huge fan, by the way, and with his own signed copy of _Deadly Heat_ on its way over to his office) and a quick hello with Captain, and he was an unofficial staff member of the 12th precinct.

And the look on Enjolras’ face when he realised he couldn’t get rid of him gave him that special thrilling feeling he always got from pushing people’s buttons. 

Sometimes Grantaire wondered how he had any friends at all.

It had been silent for a while, as the two of them were sorting through the fan mail. Eventually though, Enjolras looked up and over at Grantaire, no doubt feeling the weight of the other man’s gaze on him as he was lost in his thoughts.

“Can I help you?” Enjolras asked, his voice indicating he had no interest in offering Grantaire any sort of help whatsoever. He really knew how to charm a guy.

Grantaire just smirked and moved onto the next letter. “Just thinking,” he said, vaguely, and he could feel Enjolras’ shoulder’s tense from across the table.

“About…?” Enjolras started, and, well, Grantaire really couldn’t tresist the opportunity.

“The way your brow furrows when you’re reading.” He winked at him across the table. “It’s cute. I mean, not if you’re playing poker, it’d be deadly, but otherwise -”

Slamming his own letter down, Enjolras began to huff out, “What are you - why -“ he grasped at words in his frustration, finally settling on “Why are you even here?” with a deep sigh.

Grantaire simply feigned innocence. “What do you mean?” he asked lightly; but this only seemed to annoy Enjolras even more.

“To cause trouble? To have some fun?” Enjolras asked, his eyes bright - and _damn_ , if they weren’t some of the prettiest angry eyes Grantaire had ever seen. So blue and piercing. “You don’t care about helping us, and you _certainly_ don’t care about the victims,” Enjolras continued, as if that were one of the most offensive things Grantaire could do. “So what is it? You want to annoy me, is that it?”

“Quite the ego you’ve got there, Detective Enjolras,” Grantaire replied, smirking again, and the man had the decency to look a little flushed at this. But Grantaire finally relented and threw the man a bone. “But as fun as it’s been so far, no, I’m not here to annoy you.”

_At least, I’m not here_ just _to annoy you_ , Grantaire amended slightly in his head, but Enjolras didn’t need to know that part. The detective, however, didn’t seem satisfied with Grantaire’s answer.

“Then why?” he persisted. “What are you getting from this?”

Grantaire shrugged a little. “I guess I want to know the story.”

This seemed to take Enjolras by surprise, at least - he sat a little further back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders dissipating somewhat. “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding hesitantly intrigued, if a little skeptical.

Grantaire’s smirk turned into something a little softer as he answered. “I’m an author, it’s what I do - looking for character’s motivation, their personalities, understanding their stories. And there’s always a story, behind these things.” He looked down at the papers in front of them. “Why _these_ people? Why _these_ murders?”

Enjolras looked serious when he replied with, “Sometimes there is no story. Sometimes people are just murderers,” but Grantaire was shaking his head.

“No, no - there’s _always_ a story,” Grantaire insisted. “There’s always a chain of events that makes everything make sense.” He paused. “Like you.”

This seemed to take Enjolras by surprise again. “Me?” he said, raising a brow.

“Yes, _you_ ,” Grantaire confirmed. “You shouldn’t be here. Someone as smart as you should be a lawyer, not a cop - and yet here you are.” Their eyes meet sharply in the beat Grantaire takes to pause. “Why?” he asked.

At the question, Enjolras seemed to lose any interest he had in the conversation, turning back to the stacks of letters in front of him and pulling out another to open. “Oh I don’t know,” Enjolras started, his voice unamused. “You write the stories, Mr. Grantaire, you tell me.”

“R,” Grantaire corrected off-handedly, not allowing the little deflection to deter him. He allowed himself a few moments to watch the handsome blonde carefully, before leaning forward on his elbows eagerly and launching into his speech. 

“The accent tells me Manhattan, which means money. You went to college, probably a pretty good one - you had options. Better options - definitely _more_ options, and you still chose this? That tells me something happened.” He paused, but only for a brief moment. “Not to you - you’re wounded but you’re not _that_ wounded. No, it happened to somebody that you care about. Someone that you loved.”

During Grantaire’s rambling, Enjolras had completely forgotten about the paper in his hands, and he’d raised his head to stare down Grantaire again. Their eyes were locked on each other intensely, almost challenging the other to be the first to break it.

“You probably couldn’t live with the fact that the person responsible was never caught,” he added finally, a little softer, wilting ever so slightly under the intensity of Enjolras’ stare. It was different from before, from when he was frustrated, or annoyed. It seemed like anger, and yet somehow beyond anger - deeper, and more heartbreaking. And Grantaire felt crushed under the weight of it.

It was unlike himself, but Grantaire found himself being the first one to back down. He slowly turned his head back down to the letters, and let the moment move on, despite still feeling the weight of Enjolras’ gaze on him. “And that, Detective Enjolras, is why you are here,” he finished quietly.

The silence between them was heavy, and Grantaire felt hyper-sensitive to the noise once he heard Enjolras start to move again, shuffling his paper.

“Cute trick,” Enjolras said, his voice detached and professional, and Grantaire finally chanced another look up to find the detective casually opening a letter. “But you don’t know me, Mr. Grantaire.”

Grantaire swallowed slightly, unused to feeling so unsure. “The point is, there’s - there’s _always_ a story,” he started, shrugging a little, trying to make his voice sound lighter once more (and ignoring Enjolras’ pointed refusal to drop the formalities). “You just have to find it.”

But it seemed that whatever Grantaire was saying wasn’t registering with Enjolras. His face had turned from casual indifference to shock as he read whatever was on the paper in front of him.

“What is it?” Grantaire started, but Enjolras was already standing up, a look of determination on his face.

“It’s a drawing of Allison Tisdale’s murder - whoever did it must have tried to tell you about it,” Enjolras explained quickly, knocking on the briefing room window to catch Courfeyrac and Joly’s attention outside. “We need to get this checked for prints immediately.”

And with that he whirled out of the room, the drawing clamped carefully in his gloved hand, and his conversation with Grantaire seemingly already forgotten. But Grantaire, still sat in his seat, was not quite so ready to move on. 

He watched Enjolras through the glass, sharing the new evidence with his colleagues almost excitedly. There was a vibrancy and purpose to his movements like there had been in the interrogation room the other week - it was mesmerising really, seeing the passion and almost optimism that was brimming up and out of the detective just from one step forward in a case. He just…took Grantaire by surprise.

Maybe Grantaire had been too used to his own writing. Nicholas Heat had been a cynical investigator - angry at the world and disappointed in the system. He was a lone wolf, and liked to work that way, and was never disappointed by people because he didn’t believe in them. 

He’d always put a bit too much of himself into his writing, he supposed - maybe that’s why he’d killed him off. 

Grantaire didn’t really like Nicholas Heat anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good morning,” Joly said happily, more chipper than people usually are when they arrive at a murder scene. But then again, Detective Joly always had been an unnaturally happy and optimistic kind of guy. It was probably that sort of attitude that helped him cope with the sort of trauma they had to face on a daily basis. Which, speaking of -

“Not for her unfortunately,” Courfeyrac replied, nodding his head at the body of the teenage girl floating face down in the pool. He and Joly shared a grimace, but he accepted the coffee that Joly held out to him with a grateful smile afterwards.

“We got any details yet?” Joly asked him as he pulled his own coffee out of the holder, but it was Enjolras that answered; he’d spied Joly with the coffee cups as soon as he’d stepped onto the scene and had made a beeline over there immediately.

“We’ve got to wait for Combeferre to have a look at the body properly, but from what we can tell, it’s probably not the knife that killed her,” Enjolras said, his eyes firmly only his coffee cup. He smiled a little when it was finally warming his hands.

“Impressive,” Joly muttered eyeing the large knife that’s lodged in the girl’s back; it was hefty enough that it looked like it should have caused some serious damage. 

Enjolras shrugged, and followed Joly’s gaze back to the body, now being fetched out of the water. “Not enough blood from the wound, by the looks of it,” he said. “So from that we know that it’s been put there intentionally - making this the third homicide of our bigger investigation.”

His fellow detectives just looked at him silently, and Enjolras explained. “This is a scene straight out of _Death Of A Prom Queen_ ,” he said. “Another death purposefully executed like a scene from Grantaire’s books, we can’t ignore that kind of evidence.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “God, you’re such a fucking fangirl.”

Joly coughed politely to hide his laugh, while Enjolras went pink. “Knowing about stuff related to our case isn’t something to be ashamed of,” he protested, but this just seemed to amuse Courfeyrac more.

“Sure thing, dude.” Courfeyrac looked around absently before adding, “I notice our author is conspicuously missing from this small gathering.” He looked specifically at Enjolras for his answer to the question, “Is he too cool to be doing the dirty work out in the cold at 6 a.m.?”

“I bet he went to a fancy party last night, and drank and danced the night away,” Joly added, conspiratorially. “Very glamorous and exciting.”

Courfeyrac levelled Joly with a look. “Don’t pretend your idea of a good night is anything but you and Bossuet on a couch drinking boxed wine and watching documentaries about whales.”

“Very true,” Joly agreed with a smile. Enjolras almost thought that he’d got away with the conversation coming back around to him, until Joly turned to ask him. “So - where is he?”

Pointedly avoiding both their eye contact, Enjolras shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “His home, probably.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed at his friend. “You _did_ tell him there was another murder, didn’t you?” When he didn’t reply, Courfeyrac groaned, “ _Enjolras_.”

“He wouldn’t have come anyway!” Enjolras cried, while his friends rolled their eyes at him. “He doesn’t really _care_ \- he wouldn’t have turned up to a morning crime scene when he could just get the details at the station later. I was just…saving myself the drama.”

“You know the Captain’s put him on the team for this case for a reason,” Joly reminded him. “There’s no point getting in trouble with Valjean when Grantaire is only meant to help us.”

“Well he’s been nothing but a pain in my ass so far,” Enjolras said, and having no desire to continue this conversation, did all that he could think to do and stalked back to the forensics team at the other side of the pool. 

Courfeyrac and Joly watched him and his blond curls bounce away with, with a matched expression of fondness and exasperation.

“I swear sometimes he just hands me the crude jokes, and he doesn’t even realise it,” Courfeyrac sighed wistfully, taking a sip of his coffee, while Joly snorted loudly. “Mmm,” he said, taking another sip. “Damn, Joly this is some good java.”

“You know I treat us when it’s my turn for the coffee run,” Joly said, with a little shrug, and Courfeyrac patted him companionably on the back.

“That’s why you’re my favourite.” He thought for a moment. “That and you aren’t as emotionally constipated as the Other One.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Grantaire joined the three detectives, it was at their daily 9 a.m. briefing led by Enjolras at their cluster of desks. With a new murder to add to the bigger case, Captain Valjean had joined them for today, and they were all stood around the large white board when Grantaire arrived, looking at the evidence they’d collected.

“Who’s the blonde?” he asked loudly as he approached, nodding towards the new picture on the board as he sank into Enjolras’ chair.

Enjolras suppressed an eye twitch at the sight and answered calmly, addressing the whole group.“Her name is Kendra Pitney, and she’s our newest victim - found early this morning by a housekeeper floating face down in a pool with a knife in her back.”

“Woah, wait,” Grantaire started, sitting up in his chair, and looking a little put out - which, well, Enjolras couldn’t deny did tickle him a _little_. “Why have I not heard about this until now?”

“I didn’t know you’d be interested in joining us for the early morning outings,” Enjolras said evenly, and Grantaire had to repress the urge to frown. He hadn’t quite anticipated Enjolras trying to push him out of the investigation so early on; he wondered idly if he’d pushed him a little too far after their conversation yesterday, but he hadn’t really taken it into account how Enjolras would retaliate. 

But either way, he had the Captain here now, and Grantaire had no intention of being cut out of the loop so easily.

“Oh I think I’d be able to offer much more help if I was present for all parts of the investigation,” he said sweetly, turning to Valjean for confirmation; which he was given, gladly.

“Yes, I think it will do to have Grantaire join you, if it’s possible, Detective,” Valjean said thoughtfully, turning to Enjolras. “Where reasonable, of course.”

“Of course,” Enjolras said tightly, before swiftly moving on and avoiding the look that Courfeyrac and Joly were sending him. “We haven’t got Combeferre’s official report yet, but he’s verbally confirmed to me our suspicions at the crime scene. It wasn’t the knife that killed her, and she didn’t drown either - not enough foam around the mouth.”

“But what we do know at the moment is that it fits the pattern of the previous cases - with the detailed recreation of the murders in Mr. Grantaire’s books,” Enjolras finished.

“Well - not _that_ detailed,” Grantaire interjected. “As you should well know, Detective Enjolras.” Enjolras raises his eyebrows at Grantaire who explained, “The dress is yellow, not blue. It’s blue in the book.”

“Yes, well,” Enjolras continued, trying bluster quickly through the interjections. “It’s detailed enough. And we’ve not been able to come up with any other links at all between the three victims apart from Mr. Grantaire’s books - which unfortunately might suggest we have a serial killer on our hands, choosing his victims at random.”

“Any other evidence I should know about?” Valjean asked them all, and Courfeyrac shook his head.

“None that we could find at the scene - just like the other two, whoever is behind this is methodical and careful,” he said, with a small sigh. “I’ve sent that drawing in for prints though, so we should hear from them within the week.”

“Ah, about that.”

Enjolras’ heart sunk a little as Grantaire piped up again, and all four cops turned to face him. “Yes?” Enjolras asked, silently dreading the answer.

“I was able to talk to the Mayor last night about the progress we were making,” Grantaire started, cheerfully. “He seemed very pleased - so pleased he agreed to help us get the prints done as soon as possible.” 

“You bumped us?” Joly said happily, as the same time Enjolras said, “Impossible.”

“Oh, it’s possible,” Grantaire replied, smiling. “The results should be here any minute now.”

Courfeyrac and Joly looked incredibly pleased with this news, but something about it seemed to ignite that special fury inside Enjolras that made Grantaire smirk.

“Everyone in this office is waiting for prints,” Enjolras said slowly, his eyes boring into Grantaire’s again. “You can’t just… _skip_. There’s procedure for these things - a protocol -“

But Valjean interrupted, with a satisfied look on his face, and seemingly oblivious to the staring match that was going on between Enjolras and Grantaire. “Well if the Mayor thinks you deserve it, it’s hard to argue with that.” He gave Enjolras a pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy the bump up, fellas. I hope we’ll be seeing some results from this case very soon.”

He walked off, and Enjolras was still staring at a smirking Grantaire. “It’s okay to be jealous,” Grantaire joked, once the Captain was safely out of hearing distance. “The Mayor’s a very generous friend.”

“I’m not jealous,” Enjolras grit out. “There’s nothing to be jealous of someone who - bypasses rules -“

Grantaire couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him because of that. “Yeah, and you always come to a complete stop at a red light, and you never fudge your taxes,” he said rolling his eyes. “Enjolras, do you have _any_ fun?”

Courfeyrac and Joly laughed at this, which Grantaire appreciated, because yeah, he _was_ funny and he definitely deserved more laughs than he’d been getting around here. So he continued.

“Do you ever let your hair down?” he asked. “Drop your top? A little - ‘ _Cops Gone Wild?_ ’”

Enjolras’ face was stony. “You do realise I’m carrying a gun?”

And _that_ shouldn’t have turned Grantaire on as much as it did. 

“Ooh,” he managed to get out, with a little eyebrow wiggle, but he was thankful for the whoever the suit was that turned up next to them with an envelope in his hand - it saved him from having to answer anything more than that. He didn’t introduce himself before he left again, but Grantaire surmised that the envelope must have contained the promised prints, by the way all three detectives’ faces turned sombre.

Enjolras wasted no time in opening it, and they all started to gather around him eagerly. 

“The prints on the drawing belong to a man named Kyle Cabot,” Enjolras said, and the team quickly kicked into action. Enjolras made a sharp turn back to his desk, in that hyper-focussed work-mode Grantaire had seen him in more than a few times now.

“That name sounds familiar,” Joly said, also moving to his desk to start sifting through the papers there. “We’ve got to have come across him somewhere before.”

“Allison Tisdale - she’s the link,” Courfeyrac said suddenly, grabbing and holding up a piece of paper with a triumphant look in his eye. “Kyle Cabot - she was his caseworker. Sounds like a personal enough connection to me.”

Joly grinned. “Looks like we have our first solid suspect.”

Enjolras quickly moved over to examine the document Courfeyrac was holding, nodding to himself as if what information he was seeing made sense to him. “This is good,” he said. “This is definitely enough to bring him in for questioning and to search his place.”

“I’ll tell Valjean and set up a warrant,” Joly replied, zipping off at an impressive speed. 

There was a sense of relief and excitement settling between the men, and Courfeyrac allowed himself a smile. “Looks like we’ve finally got this investigation moving,” he said, and Grantaire watched the men with some interest as this comment made Enjolras smile - a soft, but genuine quirk of his lips.

“Finally,” Enjolras echoed, still smiling softly, and Grantaire couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

“And something exciting to do, at last,” Courfeyrac continued, oblivious to Grantaire’s ongoing crisis over Enjolras’ face. “Busts are my favourite.”

But with that Grantaire’s attention was immediately back on Courfeyrac. “A bust?” he said excitedly, his eyes lighting up. “Can I come?”

As Courfeyrac said a happy, “Sure!”, Enjolras was just as quick with his automatic, “No.” 

The two of them shared a long look, having some kind of silent conversation that Grantaire didn’t understand yet - but he interrupted whatever it was anyway. 

“I think I deserve it after being so _rudely_ iced out this morning,” he said with a mocking tone, but Enjolras didn’t seem to bite.

“You’ll get in the way,” he said, not bothering to soften the blow. Ouch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire replied. “I’m as good as gold.”

And Courfeyrac just kept on _looking_ at Enjolras, like this all meant something. “You know Valjean will say yes, Enjolras,” he said, but Enjolras wouldn’t budge.

“I don’t care,” he said, and he started to move around the desks, picking up stuff he needed. “He said ‘within reason’ - and I don’t see any sensible reason to bring an author along to try and pick up a suspected murderer.”

Courfeyrac was starting to look as if he could see Enjolras’ point, and Grantaire frowned,knowing he was losing his only ally. “But -“ he started, but Enjolras was still going.

“- _Especially_ not a suspect who seems to have an unhealthy obsession with said author.” And with that and a small eyebrow raise, Courfeyrac gave in to Enjolras with a shrug.

“Fair enough,” he said. He turned to Grantaire. “Sorry buddy - next time though!”

These words didn’t please either Enjolras or Grantaire, but the latter was _particularly_ displeased. He’d thought after his feat with the prints Enjolras would have been a little more accepting of him, but it seemed he still held him in just as much contempt as before - if not more, for his lack of respect for procedure. This really hadn’t been an outcome Grantaire had anticipated, and he wasn’t at all happy with it.

For a little while, he watched them all hurry about preparing for the bust, while quietly mulling over his options. It didn’t seem likely that he’d be able to convince Joly or even Valjean of him coming along - not after he’d seen how well Enjolras’ argument had worked on Courfeyrac, who for a little while had seemed like he was on Grantaire’s side. No, if he was going to get there, he was going to have to do it himself.

Grantaire paused for a moment, and took a quick look around - no-one was paying any attention to him, too busy with their own work. So, really, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss. 

One eye out for Enjolras coming back, Grantaire opened a window on Enjolras’ computer, and did a quick little search on the police database. As he typed, he could almost hear Jehan’s voice in his head asking him what the hell he was doing and how this was most definitely very illegal - but rules had never really been something that had stopped Grantaire before, and he wasn’t about to start letting them bother him now.

Besides, all he was looking for was an address, which - 

Bingo.

A quick scribbled note that he stuffed into his pocket, Grantaire felt chipper enough to give Enjolras a genuine smile when he came back into the room. It seemed to take the man off guard a little at first, but Enjolras didn’t seem to question it for too long, as he continued on with his work after only a small confused pause.

Grantaire smothered a smirk that was threatening to show itself - Detective Enjolras _really_ should have trusted his instincts on that one.

 

* * *

 

“I’ll lead, taking Joly and Courfeyrac with me on either side,” Enjolras said, addressing all the cops surrounding him by the car. “I’ve briefed you the layout of the building, and bar the fire escape, this guy wont be going anywhere. We ready?”

They all nodded silently, stern faces ready to take on the job at hand, and Enjolras nodded back at them. “Let’s move in,” he said, and they all moved into action.

As planned, the officers moved in to the position, blocking the few exits there were on the building. A number of them moved inside and quickly set up the stairs to Apartment 4C, Enjolras leading the way, with Courfeyrac and Joly flanking either side, handguns out. 

Within minutes, everyone was in position and Enjolras had his fist raised and was banging on the apartment door. “Kyle Cabot - NYPD - open up!” he shouted. 

He waited, straining his ears, but he didn’t seem to hear any movement inside, so after a brief shared look with Joly, he moved back and braced himself. One heavy kick from Enjolras, and the old door had been bust open, flying back to reveal the dark and damp innards of the suspect’s apartment.

They moved in through the apartment in formation, guns and flashlights out. “Kyle Cabot - NYPD!” Courfeyrac shouted again as he moved into the kitchenette, and Joly tried a moment later in the bedroom, but there seemed to be no sign of their suspect.

As their colleagues shouted clearance from their respective corners of apartment, Enjolras called it. 

“Looks like we’re all clear,” he said, trying not to sound disappointed as the adrenalin started to drain from him and he sheathed his gun. But whatever initial disappointment he might have felt at not finding the suspect didn’t last long as he was finally able to take stock of his surroundings.

Bits of paper and photos were strewn all across the small apartment - scribblings and notes on pages of books; angry and aggressive looking drawings, just like the one that had been sent to Grantaire; copies of _Flowers For Your Grave_ and _Death of a Prom Queen_ among many more of Grantaire’s novels across the entire apartment, more than one of them bookmarked; and crucially - a picture of Allison Tisdale, pride of place on the dining table, surrounded by newspaper clippings reporting on her murder.

Enjolras let out a breath as he took it in, Joly just behind him. “Enjolras, you should see this,” he said softly, and guided him to the bedroom, where a few officers were stood inspecting the inside of a closet. They parted when Enjolras entered, and he was able to see what they’d all been looking at: a picture of Grantaire, pinned to the wall, surrounded by those same drawings, book covers and excerpts.

“Oh God - that’s so _creepy_.”

In a moment of confusion, all the officers turned around to find the source of the unidentified voice - but Enjolras, he should have _known_ , he shouldn’t have even needed to turn around to know that self-involved _idiot_ would try something so -

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen a murder shrine to me before,” Grantaire continued, as if there weren’t six confused cops staring at him in the middle of a bust. “But I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

“I told you you weren’t allowed to come,” Enjolras spat out, moving towards him.

Grantaire shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just had to sneakily search through police records, and charm his way past a significant amount of officers just to get into this room. “Yeah, but there’s no fun in sitting at home.”

“How did you even -“ Enjolras started, his voice rising, and that sharp angry glint to his eye returning, when he was interrupted by Courfeyrac - who, to his credit, didn’t seem surprised by Grantaire’s presence in the least.

“Enjolras, look at this,” he said, gesturing to where some of the cops were carefully shining a light on what looked to be a woman’s blouse covered in blood - a blouse that matched the description of what Allison Tisdale was last seen wearing.

“Allison’s blouse,” he said, taking a closer look at it, and allowing himself a moment to be distracted from Grantaire - he’d deal with _that_ mess later.

“Guess he liked to keep trophies,” Joly murmured, looking furtively around the rest of the apartment too. He paused and stepped over to a pile of junk - a second later he got out a pen and pulled from it a gun to show the rest of the group. “.22 caliber,” he confirmed, and Enjolras felt something in him settle.

It was the same weapon used to murder Allison.

Things were finally starting to fall into place.

But this moment of respite only lasted for a second. Almost as soon as Joly had stopped speaking, there was a banging and man’s groaning from somewhere in the apartment, and immediately Enjolras was on high alert once more.

He pulled out his gun along with the others, as they flurried into action and moved quickly to the source of the noise - quickly identified as a closet nearest the front door. Grantaire moved back, his eyes wide as the doors flew open. He was there - Kyle Cabot - crying and curled up in the corner, all the while muttering to himself and bashing his head violently against the wall. 

“NYPD - show me your hands!” Enjolras shouted. “Show me your hands!”

The other cops moved forwards, but the man didn’t seem to put up any resistance as he was picked up and man-handled out of the closet - it seemed like he barely registered that they were there at all.

His heart beating fast, Enjolras slowly lowered his gun - Cabot was clearly unarmed and wouldn’t be putting up any sort of fight. The other officers were already dealing with his arrest, and Enjolras stepped back, Courfeyrac and Joly following him, until they were next to Grantaire - who, as was natural to him, broke their sombre silence with a quip.

“Well, _that_ was exciting,” he said happily, which caused Enjolras to frown.

“Don’t think I haven’t finished with you,” he started, turning to face Grantaire properly.

“I’d feel much better about how this conversation might go if you didn’t have a loaded weapon pointed in my general direction,” Grantaire interjected, and Enjolras rolled his eyes and put his gun away before continuing.

“Better?” he asked, sarcastically.

“Much, thank you.”

Enjolras heaved a sigh, and let a hand rub his eyes. “I don’t even want to know how you got here, just - why, _why_ did you think it was a good idea? Don’t -“ He held a hand out to pre-emptively stop whatever was about to come out of Grantaire’s mouth. “The reason I told you not to come was for yours and our safety,” he continued, his voice barely suppressing his latent anger. “So much could have gone wrong - someone could have get _hurt_.”

Courfeyrac and Joly shared a look with each other and started to move away, joining the other officers organising the room around them for evidence collection. Grantaire watched them move away out of the corner of his eye as Enjolras continued to rant at him, leaving him alone and defenseless. _Traitors_ , Grantaire thought to himself.

“How can you be so irresponsible?” Enjolras asked furiously. “Did you not see those pictures of you he has up in his closet?”

“Hmm, I did,” Grantaire said slowly, ignoring Enjolras’ obvious annoyance. “Like - that’s a _lot_ , right?”

At this Enjolras’ head fell back heavily, and he looked up to the ceiling as if he were looking for divine help for how to deal with this situation. “He’s obsessed with you, Grantaire. He could have killed you,” he replied, flatly.

“I dunno,” Grantaire said slowly, looking around the room as Enjolras threw his hands up in frustration.

“Will you please take this seriously!” he cried, but Grantaire shook his head.

“I’m not talking about that,” he replied, waving his had at Enjolras distractedly. He looked around the room thoughtfully before continuing. “I just think it’s a bit over the top - which makes me think it’s not actually real.” He turned his gaze back to Enjolras. “Which means we’re missing something.”

Enjolras didn’t seem inclined to agree with him though. “This isn’t one of your books, Grantaire,” he said, scowling. “You don’t need to start adding hidden meaning to everything. Sometimes things just… _are_.” He sighs and starts to turn away. “Go home, Mr. Grantaire.”

“But, I just don’t think this adds up, somehow -“ Grantaire started, but Enjolras turned back to him sharply and bit out,

“ _All_ of this adds up. And I actually have a job to do getting it all together - so do me a favour and just leave me alone to do it, alright?”

Enjolras stalked off deeper into the apartment, and he left an unusually silent Grantaire in his wake.

 

* * *

 

Bahorel was still awake when Grantaire finally got home. He was sat in the middle of the floor, a neon zebra-print yoga mat spread out underneath him, wearing a bright headband to match. Grantaire wasn’t sure actual yoga required you to have a bottle of beer next to you while you meditate at 1 a.m., but he had stopped asking questions about what Bahorel got up to in his free time - it was better for everyone involved.

The man had cracked his eye open though when he heard the front door open, and his face cracked into a smile as he welcomed home his roommate.

“How’s the crime fighting going, my dude?” he asked, happily, closing his eyes again and settling back down.

“It’s…going,” Grantaire replied vaguely, going to pour himself a drink. He collapsed on the couch, glass in hand when he continued. “Probably found the guy today. Some kid who had Allison Tisdale as a caseworker and a weird shrine to me in his closet.”

“Sick,” Bahorel replied, sounding a little too impressed.

“They’ve interviewed him today, but he was in too much of a state to get anything out of him,” Grantaire continued. “But the evidence seems to speak for itself, so…” He trailed off, and had another sip of his scotch.

“Not gunna lie - this isn’t exactly the inspirational stuff you write about is it?” Bahorel asked after a moment of silence.

Grantaire frowned slightly. “…What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’d make a boring book wouldn’t it?” Bahorel said with a shrug. “There’s no twist.”

“Maybe sometimes there isn’t a twist,” Grantaire offered, thinking back on Enjolras’ words - but his friend shook his head.

“Sure, _maybe_ ,” he said. “But it just seems a bit simple for a guy who nearly got away with killing two randoms and a lady he knew.”

Now _that_ made Grantaire pause. 

_Huh_.

“I’m just saying,” Bahorel continued in the silence, as Grantaire’s brain started whirring. “If you wrote a book about it, it’d have to have a little more excitement than that to explain it all.”

Grantaire was nodding at this, and he knocked back his drink enthusiastically. “You’re right, Bahorel,” he said, standing up. “Thanks, man.” With a little pat on Bahorel’s shoulder, he zipped off to his office without another word.

“You’re welcome,” Bahorel called after him, cheerfully, though not entirely sure what he was being thanked for.

Grantaire didn’t get all that many hours of sleep that night. After Bahorel had set off that train of thoughts in his head, he couldn’t _stop_ thinking - the case, and everything they’d been failing to see with it kept flicking through his mind so fast he could barely keep up with it. He had pages of rushed notes in front of him by the morning, and for the first time in a long time, he was feeling truly inspired and energised by it. 

He was out of the house before 7 a.m., and at the precinct before half past - his presence there at that time clearly surprising Enjolras, who was the only one from the team at his desk already.

“Mr. Grantaire,” he said, unable to keep his surprise from his voice. He put the mug of coffee that he’d been cradling down, and turned in his chair to face him. “You’re here early today.”

“It’s R,” Grantaire corrected on instinct, throwing off his coat quickly. “And I’m here because I need to tell you why you’re wrong.”

Whatever Enjolras had found pleasant about Grantaire’s surprise arrival seemed to immediately disappear at that comment - but Grantaire refused to have him switch off just yet. 

“Nope,” he said loudly, grabbing at Enjolras’ shoulder to stop him from turning around in his chair again. “You’re going to want to listen to this.”

Enjolras might have sighed at him and crossed his arms across his chest defensively, but thankfully, he seemed willing to hear what Grantaire had to say. He gestured stiffly for Grantaire to speak.

“Good,” Grantaire said after a moment of silence. “I’ve been thinking more about Cabot’s apartment yesterday - why it didn’t seem sincere - and it’s because I don’t believe someone _that_ obsessed with me would get details about the murders wrong.”

Grantaire pulled the large white board for the briefings from behind him for Enjolras to see. He pointed at the picture of Kendra Pitney, eagerly. “Someone _that_ obsessed and went through that much trouble to recreate the scene, wouldn’t get the colour of the dress wrong - he would have _known_ it was blue.”

Enjolras was silent, which was strange, because Grantaire planned that he would have to fight him over this - at least a page and a half of his notebook were imagined rebuttals for whatever Enjolras was going to challenge him with. But no, he sat there quietly, watching Grantaire with a serious expression and wide eyes.

“And it’s not just that that’s wrong,” Grantaire continued, a little less frantically than before. “I realised the Allison Tisdale murder scene was wrong too.” He pointed to the photo of the flowers. “I wrote a pretty detailed description in the book, and she wasn’t covered in Hybrid Tea - it was -“

“ - _Grandiflora_ ,” Enjolras said softly. He was frowning, but it wasn’t in anger as it usually was when it was aimed at Grantaire - his brow was furrowing in concentration, and his eyes were thoughtful.

Grantaire swallowed in an aborted movement. “Yeah…it just. Doesn’t seem right that he’s that sloppy, considering everything else,” he said, and the two of them fell silent. Enjolras stood up, still frowning and staring as he moved closer to the board.

Grantaire was watching him, and in an effort to end the silence that had fallen between them, he continued talking. “There’s also another discrepancy.” He paused while he pointed to a picture of the drawing. “This guy meticulously cleaned every crime scene - leaving no prints or DNA - but then sent me a letter all but telling me about the murder covered in his prints?” Grantaire shook his head. “It doesn’t add up, not for the profile you’d need to create for this guy to have done all of this. There’s too many contradictions.”

The silence fell on them again for a few long moments, while Enjolras continued to stare at the board in deep concentration. Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime for Grantaire who was watching him intensely, Enjolras spoke.

“You’re right,” he said, finally turning to meet Grantaire’s gaze. “I think we’re going to need to call in Courfeyrac and Joly early. We need to talk this out with them.”

He turned quickly on his heel and back to his desk, picking up the phone to call his colleagues in, while Grantaire watched on, a little shocked. That had been a lot easier than he’d imagined it. Huh.

 

* * *

 

“So if we’re looking at these smaller inconsistencies,” Courfeyrac said, hands on his hips and staring at the board with the other three man, “I guess we’re suggesting that Cabot is innocent and he’s been framed.”

“Seems that way,” Enjolras agreed, that furrowed brow back on his face as he was in deep thought.

“Otherwise we’re talking about a guy that went from killing Fisk - who he’d never met - to someone he knew _very_ well - and then back to another random again,” Grantaire said. “Surely the lack of connection between two of the victims, but his strong connection with the other has to mean _something_.”

“Maybe it’s the number that means something,” Joly suggested from his chair. “With one murder you look for the motive, two you start looking for a connection, and by three you’re looking at a serial killer. Standard practice for us - maybe someone is trying to lead us astray when there’s only one actually intended victim.”

“That argument still could be Cabot trying to cover his tracks,” Courfeyrac said with a shrug. “Maybe trying to throw us off by making us think it’s a serial killer with random victims - to stop us looking so closely at the people who actually knew the victims.”

It was Enjolras who shook his head at this. “That seems way too risky for him just to cover up one murder - and why construct the whole obsession with Grantaire’s book if the other two murders are just cover ups?”

Grantaire was nodding along as Enjolras spoke. “The narrative we’re being sold is that Cabot is an obsessive crazy guy who couldn’t control his compulsion to kill just like in my books - if that’s true, he wouldn’t have made mistakes.” He sighs. “All of it seems just wrong enough to suggest some kind of set up.”

“I still think the number is important though, you’re right Joly,” Enjolras said, and he stepped closer to the board. “Whoever’s trying to frame Cabot did it while constructing this Grantaire theme to make it seem like a serial killer - to cover their own tracks even more.”

“Important question is why Cabot though?” Joly asked. “Someone with a motive against him?”

“Or more likely because he’s an easy target,” Courfeyrac offered. “He’s been diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Disorder, and has a history of delusions. The guy was so out of it, we couldn’t get anything out of him in his interview yesterday - it’s not really hard to spin _that_ in court.”

Grantaire grimaced. “Especially because PDD can sometimes manifest in obsession with a single subject - which would be an easy enough way to explain away his so called ‘obsession’ with me.”

“So whoever set up Cabot must have known him well enough to set him up like this,” Enjolras said.

“And if they knew him, that means they probably knew Allison,” Grantaire added. “Sounds like if we want to catch this person, our best theory right now is that she’s the link between them all.”

The three cops were nodding along with Grantaire, and Joly turned back to his computer. “I’m going to have a quick look through our records for Allison,” he said, typing away at his keyboard. “By that point we’d established a link between her and Fisk’s murders, so we might have overlooked some things to try and build the bigger picture.”

“Did you interview anyone?” Grantaire asked. “Other than me, obviously.”

Courfeyrac snorted at this, but followed it up with an answer. “Me and Joly questioned her father - we never had any reason to suspect her family at that point, but I guess now it’s going to be worth calling him back in for follow up stuff.”

“We’ll go pay him a visit,” Enjolras said, nodding. “I’ll take Grantaire with me and we can ask him some more questions. Find me the info we got from him last time, I’ll take a look over it before we go.”

Enjolras sat down at his desk, a determined look on his face and resolutely ignoring thelook Grantaire and Courfeyrac were sharing with each other.

“So I’m allowed to come this time?” Grantaire asked, finally, turning to properly face Enjolras.

Enjolras frowned. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Well, yeah,” Grantaire started slowly. “But -“

Enjolras swivelled round fully to face Grantaire. “Valjean gave you clearance and you wanted to be involved in all parts of the investigation,” he said, looking at Grantaire like he was stupid. “I thought it would be good to bring you to an interview.”

With that he swivelled back round and started tapping away at his computer.

Grantaire looked at Courfeyrac again, but the other man just shrugged at him, clearly as surprised by Enjolras’ turn around as he was. But Grantaire decided to not question it any further - the last thing he wanted was to fall out of Enjolras’ good graces just as they were about to get to all the exciting stuff.

 

* * *

 

 

Jonathan Tisdale’s office was about as opulent as Grantaire had expected it to be when he found out the guy was a CEO - lots of minimalist furniture, clean white walls and modern art. A bit too sterile for Grantaire’s taste, in all honestly. His own apartment was crammed to the brim with stuff - mostly due to the fact neither he or Bahorel had enough impulse control to not buy unnecessary junk whenever they walked into a store. But he liked it that way; he’d rather be in a home that looked lived in and well loved than an empty room with only him and his thoughts.

“Did Allison ever mention anything about having any enemies or being threatened?” Enjolras was asking, but Grantaire only had half an ear on their conversation; he found himself idly wandering around the expansive office, inspecting the decor. As much as it wasn’t his taste, there were personal touches dotted around that he liked - photographs mostly, of his family, and Grantaire found Allison’s smiling face in almost all of them.

“No,” Jonathan replied from where he was sat behind his desk, his hand tucking back his white hair. He sounded weary, and looked frail. “Allison was a good girl, and only ever wanted the best for people. I’ve told all of this to the other officers -“

“ - I know, and I’m sorry,” Enjolras apologised, his voice sympathetic. “This is all just follow up - we just want to be as thorough as possible.”

“Did Allison know anybody who could have profited from her death?”

Enjolras and Jonathan both turned to face Grantaire as his question cut through their conversation. Grantaire smiled at them innocently, looking up from the model skyscraper he’d just been inspecting, but neither of them seemed very appeased by it.

Jonathan frowned, and his wrinkles were etched deep in his displeasure as he replied, “I may be rich, but my daughter was not - she abhorred money.” 

Whatever heat was in his expression seemed to dissipate then, as if he’d just completely lost the will to be angry. He picked up a photo he had placed on his desk, and looked at it fondly, but also endlessly sad. He continued, softly, “What little money she did have, she gave to charity.”

Enjolras watched on, his blue eyes reflecting the grief he saw in the father. “Thank you, sir,” he said gently, and moved as if to indicate he’d finished with his questions.

But Grantaire wasn’t done.

“Mr Tisdale,” he started, moving a little closer to the desk. “Fortune Magazine put your net worth at about one hundred million dollars. Is that true?”

The man, to his credit, didn’t look all that uncomfortable at this question - just confused, as he reached up to fix his hair. “I don’t…check, day to day - “

“But it’s around that, right?” Grantaire pressed. He could feel Enjolras’ stare heavy on the back of his head, but ignored it steadfastly. “What happens to all that money if something happens to you?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras started to interject, but Jonathan was already answering.

“Half of my estate would go to my charitable foundations,” he said slowly. “The other half to my children.” He paused, and swallowed audibly. “Or just my son, now, I guess.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over them, as Jonathan turned back to the photo on his desk, and Grantaire watched him, his eyes flitting between the photos on the wall and the man in the chair. But it seemed that Enjolras was done letting this interview continue.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Tisdale,” he said kindly, but putting a firm hand on Grantaire’s shoulder signalling that it was time to leave. Usually he would have put up a bit more of a fight, but he’d got everything he needed from that conversation, so he followed Enjolras outside.

When the two stepped out onto the street again, Enjolras was still frowning. Grantaire frankly just wanted a hot dog - there was a street vendor stood close by, and despite his better judgement telling him not to eat questionable street meats, he had a need that had to be satisfied. He wanted a hot dog - a really bad, cheap hot dog.

“What the hell was that about,” Enjolras muttered. Apparently he was still thinking about their interview - Grantaire had moved on.

“He’s dying,” Grantaire said bluntly, not bothering with any preamble. It was fun to lead Enjolras down a merry path most of the time, but Grantaire’s mind was busy thinking about other things. 

Though it seemed that even without the teasing Grantaire could still have fun, as Enjolras looked about as taken aback by this news as Grantaire had predicted he would be.

“I beg your pardon,” Enjolras said, looking at Grantaire incredulously.

“I said he’s dying,” Grantaire repeated. “Do you want a hot dog? I want a hot dog.”

He took off walking down the street briskly. It took a few moments for Enjolras to compute what was happening and rush to follow, but he quickly caught up. He grabbed Grantaire roughly by the arm and yanked him backwards, causing Grantaire to cry out, “Dude, _ouch_ , what the hell -“

“ - I swear I need to keep you on a leash,” Enjolras grunted, ignoring Grantaire’s complaints as his grip tightened. “What makes you think Tisdale is dying?” he asked, his eyes boring into Grantaire’s.

Grantaire pulled his arm away sharply, rubbing where Enjolras’ hands had gripped him. For some reason he’d never imagined Enjolras having that kind of strength. “That’s definitely going to bruise,” Grantaire said petulantly. “I hope your department is ready for a lawsuit.”

Enjolras’ eyes turned sharp, and Grantaire held up his hands. “Okay, alright - it’s a joke, I’m kidding.” He paused, and took a breathe as the conversation became serious again. “Okay, you know all those pictures he had up?”

Enjolras nodded. 

“I couldn’t stop looking at them, because he’s like - _so_ much thinner now,” Grantaire said. “Drastically thinner - a sick kind of thin, you know? Definitely not a workout thin.”

“His daughter was just murdered,” Enjolras retorted immediately. “It’s not unusual to see weight loss during intense grief.”

“Well, not that quickly and that drastically. _And_ he kept touching his hair,” Grantaire pressed on, unshaken by Enjolras’ interjection. “It was like he was self-conscious about it.”

“You think it was a hair piece?” Enjolras asked, catching on, and Grantaire nodded.

“And a new one at that,” he said, with a shrug. “It’s a good one, so chemo must have been relatively recent for him to act like that about it. Not only that, but the guy was wearing make-up - and I mean, power to him, but he doesn’t really strike me as the ‘casual make-up at the office’ type.”

Enjolras’ brow had furrowed as Grantaire spoke. “So he’s trying to look healthier than he actually is? Is he hiding it from his shareholders?” Enjolras asked, his voice a little more thoughtful and less sharp than before. Grantaire shrugged again, and Enjolras continued. “But then even if he does have cancer, that doesn’t mean he’s terminal.”

And that’s where Grantaire smiled. 

“But it’s a much better story if he’s dying,” he said, and even though he could practically _feel_ Enjolras rolling his eyes at him, he carried on. “Not to mention now you’ve got a motive.”

Enjolras stilled.

“We never interviewed her brother,” he said slowly, and Grantaire continued to smile.

“Well I guess since we’re out and about anyway, one more interview couldn’t hurt us.”

Grantaire started walking towards the car again, but this time it was without Enjolras trying to stop him. He eventually called back over his shoulder, “Do you think we’ll have time to grab a hot dog on the way?”

 

* * *

 

Three phone calls, thirty minutes of traffic and two hot dogs later, Enjolras and Grantaire finally found themselves in front of Harrison Tisdale. 

He was older than Allison was, by a few years, but he didn’t look it particularly. At an initial glance, Grantaire would have placed him in his mid-twenties, with his dark thick hair, warm brown eyes and charming smile. And he was certainly accommodating enough even to say a detective had turned up at his work completely unannounced. He’d invited Enjolras and Grantaire up to his office, and was taking up a seat behind his desk.

“We hope you can understand that we’re just being thorough and making sure we know as much about Allison as possible,” Enjolras said, taking the seat across from Harrison that had been offered; Grantaire joined him in the chair next to him. “We spoke to your father again earlier today - just to reiterate a few things. We just thought we’d stop by and talk to you too since we didn’t get to see you for the initial interviews.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to see me anyway,” Harrison said, shrugging his shoulders with an understanding smile. “I was actually out of the country when it all went down.”

“Oh?” Enjolras raised a brow in question.

“Yeah,” Harrison said, gesturing at all the paperwork that was spread out in front of him on his desk. “Busy times, as you can probably see by all this mess. Businesses never sleep, you know - I’m always busy doing something for work, it’s how it is.” He paused. “So…you want to know about Allison?”

Enjolras nodded. “Anything you can tell us about her really,” he said, and Harrison nodded too, understanding. 

“The last time I saw Allison was about a month ago at Dad’s,” he explained. “I still can’t believe she’s gone…it still hasn’t sunk in yet that I won’t get to see her again.”

“Were you close?” Enjolras asked, and Harrison smiled softly again.

“Oh everybody loved her,” he said fondly. “My sister - she just wanted to make the world a better place, saw the good in people, you know?” His eyes flickered away, and his expression became more sombre. “And that kid who killed her - she did _everything_ she could to help him. Did you know she brought him round here to see if I could get him a job in my company?”

Grantaire surreptitiously looked over at Enjolras - however new the information was, the detective didn’t let any surprise show in his face. “She did?” he asked lightly, and let Harrison do the talking.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone almost disbelieving. “I didn’t give him one, obviously - if my workers mess up, I lose my bond, and I can’t afford to risk it.” He sighed a little. “I don’t know - maybe if I’d helped him, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But who knows with guys like that and what drives them too do stuff.”

Enjolras paused before asking, “How did your sister react when your dad told you he was dying?”

And well, Grantaire was not expecting _that_ question from Enjolras - less than an hour ago he was hesitant to commit to that theory in private, let alone ask a potential suspect about it.

But when Harrison sighed, and looked down to his lap, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a little satisfaction flare up in his stomach - he opted to save the victory lap for later, because even he could tell now it wouldn’t be completely appropriate.

“She was upset,” Harrison said eventually, and Grantaire was really having to actively stop himself from smiling over at Enjolras. “We both were, obviously.”

And here was the moment Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from getting involved.

“But now that she’s dead, won’t you stand to gain all of your father’s inheritance?” he asked.

Harrison reacted viscerally; his eyes widening, and his face falling. “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

Enjolras jumped in. “The defence lawyers are going to be looking to blame anyone else - we just have to make sure our case is air tight,” he explained, with a calming smile. “If we don’t, I’ll be put on the stand and asked why I didn’t investigate every possibility for the night of Allison’s murder - and that might give the jury reason to doubt. We don’t want that, do we?”

“Of course not,” Harrison said, sighing a little and sinking into his chair. “It doesn’t matter what they say, though,” he insisted as he continued. “I wasn’t even in the country for any of murders, I’ve already told you that. And I have the stamps on my passport to prove it, if you want it.”

Enjolras just smiled again. “I’m sure the department will follow up with that, but I think that’s all we needed to know for now,” he said calmly, standing up from his chair. Grantaire followed suit as Enjolras leant forward to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for you time, Mr Tisdale.”

Harrison shook the two men’s hands, whatever anger he had at Grantaire’s suggestion leaving him rapidly; but there did seem to be some lingering upset as they both left the office.

“So he admitted to knowing Cabot without us even asking,” Grantaire said as they stepped outside into the street again. “I was a little surprised by that one, but then again he didn’t know that put him under any suspicion, so who can blame him for putting his foot in it there.” 

They were walking at a brisk pace back to the car, and Enjolras was silent, with his brows furrowed and staring at the pavement intensely. Grantaire continued to talk. “But I suppose none of that matters if he has a solid enough alibi, which he sounds like he does. Also, don’t think I didn’t notice you jumping in with that Terminal Tisdale theory because I _did_ , and let me just say, I was shocked, Detective Enjolras - _shocked_.”

And Enjolras was still silent, despite the teasing.

Grantaire stopped abruptly.

“You’ve got that look,” he said, looking at the man curiously. This finally caught Enjolras’ attention, who stopped too, and finally looked back up at Grantaire, his eyes a little wide.

“What look?” he asked, confused.

“ _Your_ look,” Grantaire explained unhelpfully. “That one you get when you’re thinking things. Detective things.” He paused dramatically. “Well - share with the group.”

Enjolras sighed, but not unhappily, which was new for when he was around Grantaire. “Proof of travel on a U.S. passport is absolutely unassailable, yes,” he explained. “But he’s very clearly lying.”

Grantaire blinked. “What?”

And Enjolras - Grantaire would have sworn on it - seemed to be holding back a smile. “ _What_?” Grantaire asked again, frustrated.

Sighing, Enjolras explained further. “I was suspicious that he essentially told us his alibi the minute we got in there - but the fact he then told us his alibi for _all three_ murders, without us even asking about the other two? I get knowing where he was when his sister died, butfor Fisk and Pitney too? He didn’t pause to think about it, ask for dates and times - he didn’t even check his calendar.” He paused a little, letting Grantaire take this all in. “He had his alibi prepared - and my experience, innocent people don’t prepare alibis.”

Grantaire continued to blink silently.

And then Enjolras did crack a smile, and set off back to the car.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why won’t you just admit that I was right about Tisdale dying?” Grantaire said, but Enjolras just rolled his eyes.

They were back in the office now, and had reported all their findings back to the other two detectives. Joly had got on the phone to try and get some confirmation for Harrison’s alibi; in the meantime, Grantaire and Enjolras had started bickering.

“He totally fooled you,” Enjolras replied with an unconcerned shrug. Turning to Courfeyrac, he smiled as he added, “He actually bought his alibi straight away.”

Courfeyrac, who was watching on with an amused smile from his desk, laughed at Grantaire. “It was a fleeting moment of self-doubt,” Grantaire started to defend himself, but was cut off as Joly putting the phone down.

“According to his credit card company, he bought three round trip plane tickets and the dates all match up with all the murders,” Joly confirmed with a small sigh, wheeling his chair across to the rest of the group.

“So his according to his credit card, he _was_ out of the country?” Courfeyrac asked, eyebrows raised.

“So he faked his passport stamps?” Enjolras asked, and Courfeyrac moved into action.

“I’ll get in touch with Passport Control,” he sighed. “They can give me any definite flight details.”

The three detectives silently started moving back to their own desks, until Grantaire blurted a quick, “ _Or_.”

They all paused.

“Or,” Grantaire started slowly. “He has two passports.”

Now it was Enjolras’ turn to blink.

“It wouldn’t be that hard to get one on the black market with his kind of money, trust me,” Grantaire continued, as the three other men stared at him. “So he goes out on his own passport, comes back on the second one, commits the murder, flies back out, and then comes back on his own.” He smiled. “Simple.”

Courfeyrac nodded slowly, but was frowning. “It’s impossible to prove though.”

“Unless we find that second passport,” Enjolras said firmly. He turned to Joly quickly. “Make sure we have eyes on him, he might have got spooked after we talked to him and could try to make a run for it.” 

With a satisfied smile, Joly wheeled back to his desk again to pick up the phone, while Enjolras turned back to Courfeyrac and Grantaire. “In the meantime, we’re going to need to get a warrant so we can search his place for the passport.”

Grantaire smiled and raised his eyebrows a little. “‘We’?” he asked.

Enjolras scowled. “‘We’, as in Courfeyrac, Joly and I,” he expanded. “As in, the officers who are trained for this.”

“Oh come _on_ ,” Grantaire groaned, dropping dramatically into the nearest chair. “Tisdale isn’t obsessed with me like you thought Cabot was - and nothing went wrong last time I turned up.”

“Well it _could_ have done,” Enjolras retorted, unbending. “You’re a liability and you’re not trained for it.”

“You won’t even know I’m there,” Grantaire argued. “I won’t utter a peep, or jump in front of any bullets, I promise.”

Enjolras levelled him with a look. “Why do I not believe that in the slightest?” he replied.

“Oh why not, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac finally said, much to Grantaire’s delight. “It’s not going to be action-packed, and we deserve to show him at least _some_ of the exciting bits of the job. Plus, he’s put the work in, hasn’t he?”

There were a few long beats of heavy silence, but it seemed the words and the knowing look of his friend were the magic spell for Enjolras to give in. When he did give in though, it was with a very heavy sigh.

“You have to do _everything_ I say,” Enjolras ordered and Grantaire’s whole face lit up with his toothy grin. 

“Is that a yes?” he asked, and Enjolras scowled again.

“It’s a conditional yes. You listen to everything I say, and do everything I tell you to do, with no funny business. Understand?”

Grantaire held his hands up. “Scouts honour.”

Technically Grantaire’s honour as a scout means jack shit - he’d dumped the Scouts pretty quickly when he realised it meant he couldn’t actually kiss any of the boys he was spending all his time with. But Enjolras didn’t need to know any of that.

Courfeyrac had turned around to make a call, presumably for their warrant, so Enjolras and Grantaire were left by themselves once more.

Eventually, Enjolras murmured to himself, “All of this for money…killing your own sister in cold blood.” He shook his head. “People’s greed makes me sick sometimes.”

Grantaire shrugged. “He killed two others on top of that though…Either he’s a world class sociopath or there could be something more at stake than just his inheritance.”

Enjolras didn’t respond; he moved back to his desk eventually, as Grantaire sat in an uncomfortable silence.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, going to a bust was just as exciting as Grantaire hoped it would be. He’d been strapped into a spare bulletproof vest - which naturally Enjolras had come over to personally double check, not trusting Grantaire to sort it out himself - and there were all sorts of new people bustling around arming themselves in an excited rush around him. 

He’d stopped Enjolras only once to ask him a quick question.

“Hey - can I have a gun?”

“Absolutely not.”

Well, Grantaire had kind of figured that one, but it had been worth a shot.

Obtaining the warrant had been kind of an ordeal, having to try and convince the Judge to sign a warrant against the son of a corporate giant like Jonathan Tisdale. Thankfully, the Judge also happened to be a fan of Grantaire’s - so with a promise of a signed book on its way, and Enjolras trying his best to hide his exasperation at Grantaire’s schmoozing, they ended up with the go ahead to search Harrison’s apartment. 

The only problem now was they were facing a race against time - they’d been informed by their tails that Harrison had left work early, no doubt to try and destroy whatever evidence he had hidden in his apartment. 

It was all very CSI, and Grantaire was like a kid at Christmas as he rode shotgun with Enjolras to Tisdale’s apartment building. The sirens were on as the squad of cop cars pulled up, and officers started climbing out, Enjolras, Grantaire and the team included.

They made it a few steps before Enjolras turned around and said quickly, “Grantaire, quickly grab my backup in the glove compartment, will you?”

Excitement flared up in Grantaire - he didn’t question this request at all as he leant back into the car to do as Enjolras asked. He didn’t question it, that is, until he found the glove compartment empty and felt a cool metal band click around his wrist.

He blinked a few times and turned slowly - and there he was, hand-cuffed to the wheel of the car.

“You son of a bitch,” Grantaire muttered.

Enjolras just smiled, and Grantaire could hear Joly and Courfeyrac laughing not far off. “You’re not going anywhere this time,” Enjolras said finally, before jogging away to join the other cops about to enter the building.

“You’re not funny!” Grantaire shouted after him crawling out of the car as far as he could, - because honestly what kind of rat bastard would trick him like that? But his words were lost in the commotion of the street. 

He turned back to the situation quite literally at hand and muttered to himself, “Well this is bullshit.”

Cursing Enjolras and his two accomplices under his breath, Grantaire leant back into the car, and set about looking for a key. He wasn’t about to give in so easily - and frankly Enjolras should have known that one pair of handcuffs wasn’t going to stop Grantaire from getting to somewhere he wanted to be. 

The quick search for the key turned out to be completely fruitless, because unsurprisingly Enjolras wasn’t an idiot and didn’t leave handcuff keys laying around for Grantaire to stumble upon. But there was, however, a stray hairpin on the floor of the passenger’s side, which Grantaire reached for without hesitation.

Grantaire briefly thanked Bahorel and that week he’d insisted they needed to learn how to break locks like in the movies, and set about picking his way free. It took a little longer thanhe anticipated - he had to work at an odd angle, and he was a bit out of practice, but he did seem to be getting there, for the most part.

He’d nearly cracked it when he was distracted by a figure throwing himself down the fire escape - Harrison Tisdale, carrying a garbage bag, and looking very panicked.

“Oh shit - hey!” Grantaire shouted after him, fumbling with the handcuffs. “Hey, stop!”

It was completely pointless to shout that at a fleeing criminal, Grantaire realised this, but he was a bit hopeless to do anything else while he was still attached to a cop car. But thankfully, finally, the handcuffs fell loose, and without much thought Grantaire launched himself into the alleyway after Tisdale.

“Stop - Police! Don’t move!” Enjolras screamed somewhere above his head on the fire escape, but Tisdale had already reached the ground and was sprinting round the corner into the alleyway. Grantaire didn’t even break his pace as he continued running, and followed Tisdale round the corner even with Enjolras’ shouting above him ordering him not to.

There was genuinely a moment Grantaire thought he’d made the right decision - that he’d tackle the guy and save the day. That was, of course, until he turned another corner and ran straight into Tisdale’s grasp, with a gun pointed at his head.

“Please not the face,” Grantaire croaked out.

Tisdale didn’t even laugh - which, _uh_ , _rude,_ Grantaire’s brain supplied - he just tightened his grip around his shoulders, the barrel of the gun pressed tightly against Grantaire’s temple.

It was only thirty seconds before Enjolras came bounding round the corner, his handgun out in front of him, and aimed at Tisdale. Grantaire wished he could say it was comforting to see him, but now he just had two guns aimed at him, and there was nothing really comforting about that knowledge.

“One step closer and I’ll blow his brains out,” Harrison shouted and Enjolras stilled.

“Harrison, let him go,” he replied calmly. “It’s over - put the gun down and let him go.”

“STAY BACK!” Harrison roared, dragging Grantaire a little further back into a mesh gate. Stumbling with him, Grantaire could feel his nerves starting to get the better of him, and words just started bubbling up and out of his mouth.

“You know what I don’t get,” Grantaire started, his voice a little higher than it usually was. “Why did you want all that money anyway? I mean I know your dad’s rich, but damn - you’ve already got a company that makes you money, what are you murdering three people for when you’ve already got money?” He took a breath. “Are you in debt?”

Harrison pressed the gun against his head a bit tighter, his voice cracking as replied, “Shut up.”

“Grantaire, you’re not helping,” Enjolras murmured with wide eyes, but Grantaire just kept going, because he just couldn’t stop himself.

“But if you’re in debt, why not just ask your Dad to bail you out? Unless you already asked him to - and he said no. Did he always say no to stuff you asked for? He’s a self-made man, he probably thought you were weak for asking -”

“ - She’s the one who was weak!” Tisdale cried out. “I was making something out of myself, and all he cared about was _her_.”

Grantaire’s ramble just continued. “So that’s the reason you killed her? Not just because of the money to bail you out, but because it would be the last dig at Dad - taking away the person he cared most about, more than you?” He felt Tisdale kick fruitlessly at the gate behind them. “That’s a pretty good story, actually.”

“Who the fuck are you, anyway?!” he asked, continuing to kick the gate.

“Harrison, put down the gun - it’s over,” Enjolras said again, moving a bit closer again, but Harrison wasn’t ready to give in.

“It’s not over!” he screamed. “It’s _not_ over, drop the gun or I _swear_ I’ll -“

Harrison had moved the gun away from Grantaire to point it at Enjolras - and Grantaire, without a moment’s hesitation, knocked Harrison’s gun arm and threw his elbow back into Harrison’s face. The man crumpled, and Grantaire was able to grab the gun away from his grasp before he hit the ground.

The world paused for a second.

“OH - _oh_!” Grantaire shouted then, jubilant, holding the gun above his head and pointing at Harrison on the ground. “ _Oh my god_ \- tell me you saw that! _Tell me you saw that_!”

Enjolras, in the meanwhile, had rushed forward immediately to subdue Harrison, pulling his arms behind his back and cuffing him.

“That was the coolest thing I’ve ever done,” Grantaire said, not able to stop himself from talking, even as he heard the police back-up filing round the corner to help them. “Please tell me that’s going in your report.”

And over the commotion that was now surrounding them, Enjolras gave him a look - a dangerous look, like back in Cabot’s apartment. Grantaire wasn’t even a little bit surprised when a few minutes later Enjolras was stood in front of him and shoving him - hard.

“Ow,” Grantaire muttered, as Enjolras had shoved him into the brick wall - and again, wow he really was freakishly strong for his lankier frame.

Enjolras himself seemed thoroughly unconcerned by his pain, however. “What the hell were you doing?” he spat out, moving in closer to Grantaire, raging. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“Funnily enough, I _did_ notice the gun at my head,” Grantaire quipped, but at Enjolras’ murderous look he just rolled his eyes. “The safety was on the whole time,” he explained. “I felt it while he was dragging me about - he was never going to hurt me.”

After a brief moment of pause, all the fight seemed to leave Enjolras at once. He stepped away, and let his head hang a little, his posture exposing his exhaustion.

“You could have told me,” he said, finally, lifting his head back up again to meet Grantaire’s gaze; he looked so completely tired.

Grantaire just shrugged, with a little smirk. “Yeah, I guess. But there’s no fun in that.”

There was a beat of silence between them before Enjolras huffed out a half laugh. He shook his head, and walked away from Grantaire without another word.

 

* * *

 

A couple of days later, Tisdale was behind bars and the process of putting together their full case was well under way. Though their premise for a warrant had been based on circumstantial evidence and hunches, their case was now proving solid - the bag Harrison had been trying to flee with was filled with half-shredded pieces of evidence, crucially including that theorised second passport. 

Kyle Cabot too was proving to be a huge help - he had started to recover from whatever mental breakdown that had been instigated after the death of his close friend and caseworker. He corroborated that he knew Harrison, and that Allison had even told him her brother was going to visit her later on during the last time he saw her. 

Crucially, he also told them that Harrison had broken into his apartment to threaten him - and being in the state that he was Cabot was helpless as Harrison planted all the evidence against him.

Cabot had never even read any of Grantaire’s books.

Enjolras was glad to see that at their last meeting with him, he was looking a lot healthier - he could talk this time, at least, and seemed to be alert in a way he hadn’t been back in his apartment during the bust. Even if he did look subdued and very tired, Enjolras supposed he’d been through enough to warrant it.

Grantaire had been hanging around and helping with the clean up, but it was clear by now that this case, and his time with them, was coming to a close. All that was left now was the paperwork, and after the Captain had officially thanked him for his service to the community, Grantaire had come to say his goodbyes to the team.

“It’s been a pleasure to have you,” Courfeyrac was saying as he shook Grantaire’s hand. Enjolras was sat back at his desk, trying to work, but failing miserably as he stared on at the scene in front of him.

“Hey, the pleasure’s been all mine, honestly,” Grantaire said earnestly. “Who knew being a cop could be so fun?”

Courfeyrac laughed and clapped him on the back amiably. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to be the one filling in all the paperwork.”

Grantaire laughed too. “No, probably not.”

It was Joly’s turn now, who pulled him into an enthusiastic hug. “Don’t be a stranger!” he said, smiling widely at his new friend. “And you know, if you’re ever stuck for a date for a fancy-pants party…”

“ - I’ll know who to call,” Grantaire finished, also smiling.

In the brief moment of silence that followed, all of their eyes turned to Enjolras expectedly. He faltered for only a second though, before he got up from his chair and strode over to where they were stood, and stuck out his hand awkwardly for Grantaire.

“The NYPD and the city thanks you for you service,” he said stiffly.

Grantaire blinked. 

Slowly he reached out for Enjolras’ hand and shook it. “You’re welcome?” he said, he guessed, as he gripped the other man’s hand and Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

“That’s Enjolras speak for ‘We really appreciate your help, and you’ve been very helpful’,” Courfeyrac translated, and both he and Joly were smiling next to him.

Scowling a little, Enjolras shot his friend a little look, but he didn’t say anything else to him or Grantaire before dropping Grantaire’s hand and moving back to his desk with purpose. 

He sat down a little heavier than was necessary, emphatically staring at his desk. He assumed all was said and done, until he felt someone come up next to his chair; he looked up hesitantly.

Courfeyrac and Joly were still by their own desks, packing up their own stuff and chatting merrily, and Grantaire had come to stand by him, looking down at Enjolras with a small smile.

“Guess this is goodbye, Detective,” Grantaire said, smirking. Enjolras’ nodded slowly.

“I guess it is.”

An uncomfortable silence descended between them.

After a few moments, Grantaire huffed out a little laugh. “Okay, well - “ He ducked his head a little as he ran a hand through his dark curls. “ - Well, I guess I’ll go now.” He smiled at Enjolras. “I’ll see you around, Enjolras.” And then his eyes glinted mischievously. “And I hope you enjoy your gift. Top drawer.”

With a wink, Grantaire turned on his heel and went back to more enthusiastic farewells from his colleagues.

There was a beat where Enjolras just watched after him, lost; but then he was almost frantic, unable to help himself, yanking open his top drawer. On top of his possessions was a book, a brand new hardback edition of Grantaire’s most recent novel, _Deadly Heat_.

Enjolras swallowed, and slowly lifted up the cover to find a message, written in Grantaire’s scrawled hand.

 

_To my biggest fan,_

_Here’s another one for your treasured collection._

_Enjoy,_

_R._

 

Enjolras felt his face flush as he let the book fall closed, and snapped his draw shut. He could only hope that no-one in the office had their eyes on him when he’d found the gift, because he really hated thinking about what his face must have done. He started back on with his work and refused to look up and check, willing the redness in his cheeks to die down.

By the time he was calm enough to chance a quick look up, Grantaire had gone.

Enjolras did his best to smother whatever feeling was rising up in his stomach as he looked around the mostly empty office. Courfeyrac caught him looking up, and came up to him.

“Grantaire owns a bar Downtown - he invited us down for a few drinks,” Courfeyrac said as he reached him, looking down at Enjolras with gentle eyes. “You wanna come?”

But Enjolras shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, thanks. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to do, and I think I’m just going to want to head home after.” When he looked back up at Courfeyrac though, he looked a little hesitant. “Will you…tell him I said thanks, though?”

His friend smiled at him, and clapped his shoulder. “Sure thing, bud,” he said kindly, before turning to grab his coat from the back of his chair. “See you tomorrow!” he called behind him, as he and Joly left together, and Enjolras lifted up a hand in parting.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Enjolras was alone in the office at last. 

With one furtive look around, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out the book. He turned to the signed page again, and allowed himself one indulgent moment to take it in.

He was still smiling twenty minutes later, curled up in his chair and finishing chapter three.

 

* * *

 

It was midnight and Grantaire was still sat in his own office. He’d made it home hours earlier, and had wandered in there with the pretence of - well, actually he wasn’t sure under what pretence. He’d been avoiding his office, in all honesty, in the past few weeks and months.

He _wrote_ in his office. It was his special place where he liked to write; recently that pressure of not being able to come up with anything had to led to him avoiding the cosy room like the plague. He’d started to feel choked in there, the empty documents on his computer screen were overwhelming him.

But there was something about tonight that had pulled him back in - he didn’t know what it was, but he’d just felt the urge to sit down in his big comfy chair and relax. He’d been in there for some time now, and part of him had been waiting for that clawing, nauseating guilt to descend upon him - but here he was, hours later, no worse than when he’d come in.

He swilled his scotch around in its glass absent-mindedly.

_Hm_.

Before he could second guess himself, he sat up sharply, slamming his glass down and reaching for the keyboard. There was a moment of pause, just as hands hovered over the keys - but he knew, for the first time in a long time, what he wanted to write.

_Detective Rick Angel was no stranger to these kind of crime scenes - bloody, improbable and cruel. It was the way these sort of things went in the crammed and busy streets of New York City. The other detectives turned in interest as they saw him make his way onto the scene, his blonde hair glinting in the morning sun on this crisp winter morning…_

Grantaire smiled to himself - a genuine, content smile that gave him a feeling of warmth through his body.

For the first time, in a long time, this - _writing_ \- all felt very, very right.

 

* * *

 

A couple of days later, and things in the precinct had finally settled back down to normal. It almost seemed like a weird dream, having a world famous author dropping in to help them with a homicide investigation - but this job didn’t allow much time for contemplation. Before they knew it, they had new, just as baffling cases in front of them, and the team’s thoughts didn’t have much time to linger on the strange investigation they’d just gone through. 

That was until -

“Your boy’s in Cap’s office again,” Joly said, walking up behind Enjolras and Courfeyrac and successfully breaking up their conversation because _what -_

"Courfeyrac quickly looked at his friend and then at the office and then back at Enjolras again - and Enjolras was too shocked to even mutter out his usual protestations of them calling him ‘ _his boy_ ’ because - Grantaire was there again? In the Captain’s office? Again?

And so it was - the three men stared on as they saw the Captain in a lively conversation with the author through the office window.

“God, deja vu much,” Courfeyrac muttered under his breath, and Joly made a noise of agreement. Enjolras just kept on staring.

Grantaire and Captain Valjean started to move a moment later though, and the three men suddenly had to scramble back to their stations in an effort to make it look like they hadn’t been very obviously staring at their meeting. 

About five minutes later, when everyone was sat behind their desks and looking very professional, Captain Valjean had made it over to the three detectives - sans Grantaire. Courfeyrac and Joly were doing their utmost to look disinterested at the Captain’s impromptu arrival in their corner - but Enjolras was struggling to let go from the shock he’d felt just a few moments ago.

“Congratulations, Detective Enjolras,” Captain Valjean started, seemingly oblivious to Enjolras’ internal turmoil over Grantaire once again. “It looks like you have a fan.”

And as if he couldn’t even get more confused, the Captain went ahead and said that. 

“What?” Enjolras let out, unable to stop himself and hide his confusion.

“I’ve been talking with the Mayor and Mr. Grantaire again today,” explained Valjean. “Seems like Mr. Grantaire has his inspiration for his new novel - a blond-haired take-no-nonsense New York cop?”

Joly’s eyes widened, and Enjolras saw Courfeyrac slap a hand over his mouth and duck his head behind his computer out of the corner of his eye.

“Uhh.” Enjolras really needed more than one syllable noises. “I’m…flattered?” 

Which he guessed on some level was true? Maybe. Enjolras wasn’t really sure how he felt right now, with his friends laughing at him in his eye line and a million thoughts running through his head.

Valjean smiled kindly. “I wouldn’t be.” He paused. “It means he needs to do some…research.”

There’s a beat of silence and then the realisation -

“Oh no,” Enjolras groaned quietly.

“Oh yes.” 

“Sir, please,” Enjolras started to beg. “I can’t control him - he’s like a - nine year old on a sugar high. He has no impulse control, and he _never_ listens to me. You can’t -“

Valjean shrugged. “Unfortunately it’s out of my hands,” he said. “He helped solve that case, which made all of my superiors, all the way up to the Mayor, _very happy_.”

Enjolras felt all hope fading. “How long for?” he asked.

And then came the kicker. “As long as he might need - I suppose it’d be up to him,” Valjean said. He turned to Courfeyrac and Joly, who straightened up immediately. He said, “I hope you don’t mind adding a new member to your team - he’ll be starting tomorrow,” before leaving them with another one of his kindly smiles. 

All three watched in silence as the Captain closed the door to his office behind him, and sat there for a few moments, taking it in.

“Okay,” Joly said finally. “ _Now_ you’ve got to admit it’s a bit funny.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras moaned, and let his head fall against his desk.

 

 


	2. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months have passed since Grantaire joined the homicide department, and him and Enjolras have graduated from outright combatants to indifferent colleagues. A new case appears that brings an old friend of Grantaire's back into his life, and the effects of it rocks the group as they rush to catch a killer.
> 
> \--
> 
> As always, this chapter is dedicated to Anna (who I said I'd write this fic as a Christmas present....last year. I'm sorry).

It was five months to the day that Grantaire had officially joined the 12th Precinct’s homicide team - and honestly, he’d been having the time of his life. 

Even in the short time Grantaire had been in the squad, there’d been a number of weird and wonderful cases. A particular favourite of his included the death of a museum curator after a stone gargoyle was dropped on him. There had been whispers of an ancient mummy curse that promised death to those who looked upon its face - and, well, _naturally_ Grantaire couldn’t resist doing just that, going out of his way to make sure he got up close and personal with the mummy in question.

It turned out that it was actually one of the doctors who’d murdered his colleagues - he’d been using the alleged curse to cover his tracks, which did unfortunately mean that the curse was bogus. Grantaire was still alive and kicking, much to his dismay, as ‘struck down by an ancient curse’ was kind of a dream death scenario in his opinion - but he supposed seeing Enjolras’ exasperation had been worth living for in the end.

Though Enjolras had been somewhat hesitant (to say the very least) about allowing Grantaire access to their investigations full time, Grantaire seemed to have done enough with their first case to prove that he could, at times, be an asset. As such, Enjolras’ disdain had transformed from open dislike to a kind of begrudging acceptance, which Grantaire could live with.

There had been moments, though, when he genuinely thought they were moving forward with their relationship. Though Enjolras might pretend otherwise, they worked _well_ together. They bickered, sure, and they _definitely_ tested each other’s patience - but they also challenged each other, bounced theories and ideas off each other easily, and Grantaire couldn’t help but feel like they instinctively… _fit_ together. 

Strictly as a crime fighting team, of course.

But then there were also moments that left Grantaire feeling utterly unsure about where they stood. Enjolras had not mentioned or even referenced the signed book Grantaire had left for him, and Grantaire got the distinct impression that Enjolras was purposefully keeping a wall up between them. 

Joly and Courfeyrac were keen to spend time with him, and by now Grantaire would confidently call the two of them his friends; he’d been to both of their apartments on multiple occasions, had regular after work drinks with them, and had even struck up a friendship with Joly’s longterm boyfriend too. So while Joly and Bossuet were insisting Grantaire should bring Bahorel over for a lasagne night, and Courfeyrac had already come over to have drunken Mario Kart tournaments at his apartment - Enjolras still remained a complete mystery. 

He resolutely did not spend time with Grantaire outside of work, and avoided most - if not _all_ \- situations that meant they had to talk to each other about non-case related things.

Whatever it all meant, Grantaire had been endlessly inspired in the time he’d spent around Enjolras. That first case hadn’t been some sort of weird fluke - it turned out that Enjolras was just as impassioned and dedicated in everything he did. He was remarkable, really. Those scribbled first few drafts Grantaire had started after their first outing together had quickly been overhauled into a novel - a novel that for the first time in a long time, he’d been genuinely happy to send off to his publisher, Jehan.

Jehan hadn’t said much when he’d gotten it, other than confirming he was passing it on to his editors and that he was happy to see Grantaire back on track. Grantaire was thankful for it, really - he wasn’t sure he could handle the questions on where this whole thing had come from when he wasn’t even sure of the answer to that himself.

Everyone else had questions too - Joly and Courfeyrac did, and Bahorel _certainly_ did - all watching Grantaire and Enjolras with intrigued eyes when the topic of his writing came up. But Grantaire made sure his mouth was firmly shut around them - it would mean facing a wormhole of feelings that he didn’t want to address just yet. Or ever. 

Weirdly, the only one who didn’t seem to have _any_ interest in the novel was Enjolras himself. Grantaire had coyly alluded to the book once or twice in front of him, just out of sheer interest that he couldn’t shake (because _why_ had Enjolras not mentioned it _at all_ ) - but Enjolras had just looked disinterested and moved their conversation back to a discussion about evidence.

Grantaire wasn’t sure what it all meant or where he stood, but he was trying his best not to overthink it too much - he was having fun with them all, and that was all he really cared about. Truly, he did. He wasn’t lying to himself - not one bit.

And he _definitely_ hadn’t lost more than one sleepless night overthinking about what Enjolras actually thought about the whole thing. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Grantaire was quickly shaken from his mental tangent by Joly’s words. He spun in his chair to see the man leaning across with a knowing smile on his face. 

“Deciding whether I should get pizza for lunch,” Grantaire replied quickly, with a sharp grin and not missing a beat. “It’s either that or tacos, but it’s an important decision that requires deep thought. I’d appreciate no more interruptions in this trying time.”

But Joly just kept on smiling.

“And you do that by staring at Enjolras’ desk?”

He supposed he should have expected that kind of expert deduction - he was talking to a detective after all.

Sighing, Grantaire flashed a small smile back at Joly, who looked like he was trying his best to stop his expression from becoming smug. Grantaire spared a quick look back to Enjolras, who was deep enough in his conversation with Courfeyrac that he wouldn’t catch anything he and Joly were saying. 

Turning back, he started a little quieter, in a self-deprecating tone, “You’d have thought that being a muse for a celebrated crime author would mellow a person out a little.”

Joly was still smiling, but he gave a small shrug. “I don’t think I’d ever put the words ‘Enjolras’ and ‘mellow’ in the same sentence,” he said.

“I guess it’s not that,” Grantaire admitted, stopping to have yet another furtive glance at the man in question. “I just thought he might have stopped hating me by now.”

“Who hates who?” 

The two looked up to find Cosette’s big hazel eyes blinking down at them - her arms were folded over the divider at Joly’s desk, her head resting there as she watched the two men with an avid interest.

Cosette was Captain Valjean’s daughter, and spent an alarming amount of her spare time at the station. Grantaire had only come to officially meet her rather recently, since her school had only just let out for the break and she was able to spend more (if not _all_ ) of her time there. 

Grantaire would be confused as to why as girl her age would want to spend so much time in a police station when she could be out doing fun teenager things (Grantaire at least remembered a significant amount of fun ‘firsts’ happening when he was sixteen) - but as it turned out, fun teenager things didn’t really seem to be her vibe. She wanted to go into the force herself someday, and she found all parts of their investigations interesting to watch unfold.

Who needed alcohol when you had murder mysteries?

But beyond those first few days of confusion, Grantaire hadn’t dwelled on the fact too much - even though she was only a teenager, she was actually rather pleasant company. Most of the force cherished their visits from the bright and polite young girl, and she was always welcomed at any part of the station she turned up at. Grantaire certainly got along incredibly well with her. He found her to be spunky and intelligent, and she seemed to like the way he didn’t baby her. 

It barely took two days before he was as wrapped round her little finger as the rest of the squad were.

“Apparently Grantaire thinks that Enjolras hates him, which is hilarious,” Joly explained, and Grantaire thought he could really have done without the patronising tone. 

“He _does_ hate me,” Grantaire insisted, but it was Cosette who replied this time.

“He doesn’t,” she said, shaking her head, and looking at Grantaire like he was missing something incredibly obvious.

Joly pointed at her. “Listen to her - she knows.”

Grantaire sighed, and spun his chair a little more to face them, finally turning his back on Enjolras. “All I do is annoy him - and it’s only on purpose about seventy-five percent of the time,” he said. “Well - eighty,” he amended, after a moment, and the sixteen year old just rolled her eyes at him. 

“It doesn’t mean he hates you,” she tried to explain, but Grantaire rolled his eyes back.

“Okay - so he severely dislikes me,” he said. “We can argue about the semantics later, but my point still stands.”

Joly seemed to be taking pity on him by this point though; his amusement softened into something more fond as he leant forward. “You just confuse him, is all,” he said, quietly. “Take it from me - he doesn’t hate you. He just…doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“So I shouldn’t read into the fact that he acts like he can’t stand being in the same room as me?” Grantaire asked, raising his eyebrows.

Joly shrugged. “It can take him a little time to warm up to people.”

“Most people do everything he says,” Cosette added from where she was perched. “He doesn’t know how to deal with someone who goes out of their way to disagree with him - or doesn’t take everything as seriously.”

Grantaire looked over to Joly for confirmation of this, and the man nodded. “He’s an excellent cop,” he said. “He’s right most of the time - and even when he’s not, no-one’s ever been as… _vocal_ as you are about it.”

“But you wouldn’t be here if he didn’t like you,” Cosette continued where Joly trailed off. “There’s no way he’d let you get near the work if he didn’t respect you. You’ll figure out how to get into his good graces eventually.”

Grantaire smiled kindly up at the girl. “And if I wanted to - only _if,_ by the way, I’m not saying I _want_ to be in his good graces…do you have any advice for how I’d do that?”

Cosette paused. 

“Make sure he always has good coffee, probably.” 

Joly snapped his fingers loudly, as he cried, “I _told_ you!” 

Grantaire watched Cosette’s blushing face as she smiled from ear to ear at Joly’s outburst. “This girl,” he continued, with more pointing. “She _knows_.”

“What does Cosette know?” Courfeyrac called over, and Grantaire turned to see him and Enjolras had broken their conversation to look over at the three of them.

“Everything,” Grantaire replied solemnly.

Courfeyrac smiled. “Damn straight,” he said, and he and Enjolras turned back to whatever they were discussing; and Grantaire could swear he saw the hint of an amused smile tugging at Enjolras’ lips too.

He continued to stare on, while Joly and Cosette shared a little look behind his back.

* * *

Little over a week later and Grantaire was still very consciously _not_ thinking about the conversation he’d had with Joly and Cosette. To hear them say with confidence that they thought Enjolras not only didn’t hate him, but actively _respected_ him was a bit hard to come to terms with.

Almost every part of him was so sure that his instincts could be trusted. Enjolras had shown little to no sign that he had any interest or desire to be around Grantaire unless they were forced to be - nothing about his actions screamed respect in a way that Grantaire would understand it.

But then again, there was that other instinct in him - a very small, mostly insignificant instinct, buried deep down within him, and one that he’d stopped paying attention to years ago - that insisted that there was some weird but positive energy between them. That part of him that realised how well they worked together and hoped against hope that Enjolras might see that too. 

Who knew it would be their next case that would help Grantaire to start getting some answers?

“Fancy hotel,” Grantaire murmured as they stepped out of the car and started making their way into the lobby. 

“For a fancy occasion,” Enjolras replied, leading the way. He turned his head a little to give Grantaire a brief look as they walked. “I get the feeling you’ll enjoy this one.”

Grantaire raised a brow. “What makes you say that?”

“Morning of the wedding day, one of the bridesmaids has been found dead and presumably murdered,” Enjolras replied; his voice was solemn, but there was something in his eyes as he looked at Grantaire, like he was almost intrigued as to what Grantaire’s reaction would be.

Grantaire didn’t disappoint.

“Oh _man_ ,” he said enthusiastically, a grin stretching over his face. “Now _that’s_ a murder! What a treat.”

“Some people would think you’re sick for getting this excited about homicide, you know that right?” Enjolras asked, with a small sigh.

Grantaire laughed. “You know you don’t have to say ‘some people’ when I know you mean you, right?”

They’d reached a set of double doors, and Enjolras turned more fully to give him one of his patented looks.

“ _Enjolras,_ c’mon - it’s going to be such a good story! I can already tell. You know how I feel about the stories - you couldn’t write it better if it were on a TV show.”

Enjolras just made a noncommittal noise in lieu of an actual response, as he pulled open the doors and they both stepped inside.

Joly and Courfeyrac had been at the scene since the incident had been called in early in the morning, keeping an eye over the initial investigation and gathering information before the other two men made it there. When they caught sight of Enjolras and Grantaire coming into the reception hall (their temporary base of operations), they quickly made their way over, notepads in hand.

“So what have we got?” Enjolras started, hands on his hips, and Joly let out a long whistle.

“It’s a doozy,” he admitted, flicking back through his notes. “Combeferre’s going to come down and let us know what he’s found from the body - he’s in the room examining at the moment but he’s due out any minute now.”

“Otherwise we’ve been trying to interview as many guests and staff as possible in the meantime,” Courfeyrac continued. “Official story is our bride-to-be got concerned when one of her bridesmaids, Sophie Ronson, was getting late - went to go knock on her door to no answer. After she’d convinced hotel staff to get in there, they found Sophie dead and stuffed in her closet.”

“We’ve got all the rooms cordoned off, and some of our guys going through CCTV with security,” Joly said, nodding a little to himself as he was skimming his notes. “As far as we can tell we’ve got pretty much all of the guests in or around here, bar the notables like the bride, groom and their families - they’re all in the bridal suite, but we have people in there with them.”

Enjolras was nodding through all of this, his brow furrowing, but they weren’t able to get much further as they were interrupted by a polite cough. 

“Combeferre,” Enjolras started, a bright look in his eye as he went over to shake the man’s hand. Grantaire thought it was a bit much, considering they saw the man _every time there was a new case._ Not to mention Courfeyrac told him on the sly that Enjolras and Combeferre were pretty much each other’s _best friends_ so had to see each other out of work all the time too -

But Grantaire guessed Enjolras was just the type of person that did get that excited whenever he was around someone he genuinely liked.

(Which is why - like - _how_ could he believe Joly and Cosette when he saw how he acted around Combeferre and literally _everyone else_ compared to how he was around _him_ -)

“I’ve had my guys photograph the scene - they’ll be sending them over to your department shortly after processing,” Combeferre started, in his quiet even voice, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “But it was an easy enough examination - preliminary cause is asphyxiation. From the way the windpipe was crushed I’d say that the culprit choked her from behind.” He paused. “There were some more interesting things to note though.”

Combeferre’s expression was remarkably neutral. He had a calming and kindly demeanour, with glasses with thick brown frames - the kind of guy you’d imagine would wear cardigans and do crosswords in his spare time. But Grantaire had always suspected he was a lot tougher than he let on - he was clinical and forthright, and it gave the impression this was a man who didn’t suffer any nonsense.

“There were a few abrasions on her back that were made before she died - they might have been from a struggle, but I can’t tell what they were made with just yet. And one of her earrings was missing,” Combeferre continued, allowing Joly and Courfeyrac enough time to jot what he was saying down. “You’ll be able to see for yourself, but it looks like it was yanked from her head, given the damage to the lobe. I mentioned it to the officers in the room with me but they’ve not located the missing earring yet.”

“We’ll get pictures of the earrings to CSU so officers can search the hotel,” Enjolras said, looking at Courfeyrac, who took off, presumably to take care of just that. Enjolras turned back to Combeferre. “Time of death?”

“I’d say between 3 and 5 a.m. this morning,” Combeferre said, giving a brief glance at the clipboard in his hands. “Given the temperature and lividity.”

“Thanks for your time,” Enjolras said, giving Combeferre another firm handshake - which took Grantaire a great deal of self control to hold back another eye roll.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I have the labs,” Combeferre replied as his parting words- offering a closed-mouth smile to Joly and Enjolras, and an awkward nod to Grantaire. Grantaire’s steady gaze followed the man all the way out of the room.

Enjolras had already turned back to Joly. “Anything more I should know?”

Joly let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Some tidbits from the staff - they only issued one keycard to the victim which was last used to get into her room at 3:18 a.m. - which I guess we now know matches up with the time of death.”

He flipped a few pages. “And nothing concrete from the guests we’ve had in here so far, apart from one rumour - apparently a few guests had heard that Sophie had tried to back out of being a bridesmaid, but changed her mind again at the last minute.”

Enjolras nodded. “That’s good - keep up the interviews in here, and see if you can get a call to someone to follow up on Sophie’s phone records. And get Courfeyrac to go check in on how the security footage looks when he’s back too.” He let out a breath. “In the meantime, I’ll go check in with the wedding party, starting with the bride.”

Joly nodded at this, and like Courfeyrac had earlier, zipped off to get on with the tasks he’d been set without another word. In much the same way, Enjolras turned on his heel and set off out of the room, presumably with the expectation that Grantaire would follow him.

Which he did, obviously.

“What do we know about the wedding party then?” Grantaire asked, quickening his pace a little to keep up with Enjolras’ long and purposeful strides. “Rich, with this kind of place for a wedding, I imagine. Mob money?” He gasped dramatically. “Or oil barons! And it was a hit on the bridesmaid who slept with the groom!”

Enjolras was flat in his reply. “They’re just a normal couple getting married, Grantaire. This isn’t _Dallas_.”

“You ruin all my fun,” Grantaire sighed. “Also _Dallas_? Since when were you a middle-aged white woman?”

Enjolras frowned. “Don’t be sexist.”

“It’s not sexist if it’s a fact,” Grantaire said, enjoying the way he could practically feel Enjolras’ temperature rising with every word he said.

“It’s not - just - “ Enjolras huffed, and looked over at Grantaire with a scowl. “An upper-middle class man called Greg is marrying another upper-middle class woman called Floreal. Stop trying to make it more dramatic than it needs to be.”

But Grantaire had come to a complete halt at least a sentence earlier because -

“Floreal?” he asked, his eyes a little wide. “Not…Floreal Beauchamp?”

Enjolras, suddenly realising that Grantaire was no longer following him, stopped too, and turned round in confusion. “Yeah, why?” he answered eventually, watching Grantaire with something akin to concern.

“I don’t know many Floreal’s around Manhattan,” Grantaire said faintly. “In fact, I’ve only ever met one Floreal _ever_ so it seemed like a reasonable guess. Not a very popular name, I mean she always hated it too -“

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras said sharply, cutting him off. “What are you talking about?” His frown deepened as he stepped a little closer to him. “Do you know her?”

Grantaire laughed. 

“Knew…” he confirmed. “Knew…intimately - actually…for approximately four years.” He swallowed. “She’s my ex-girlfriend, is what I’m trying to say.”

There was a long beat of silence where Enjolras didn’t really react, and they just stood there looking at each other.

Then Enjolras’ head dropped.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” he sighed harshly, in the voice Grantaire had started to recognise as a very specific type of frustration reserved for only him.

“We parted on good terms!” Grantaire cried, holding his hands up a little defensively. “Great terms actually compared to some of my other exes! She’ll probably be happy to see me - which is _definitely_ more than I can say for the others. And besides, she’s getting married. Which - “ Grantaire paused for a second, taking a moment to think to himself, as he suddenly realised something. “ - which is interesting - because I haven’t got an invite? Huh. Forget the murder, I’ll be asking her about _that_.”

Enjolras finally lifted his head back up and looked at him incredulously. “You can’t possibly think I’m going to let you see her.”

Grantaire suppressed the urge to pout - barely. 

“But I’ll be so helpful! I have insight and…stuff,” he said, gesturing non-committedly. 

Enjolras looked almost pained. “It’s just - _so_ unprofessional,” he argued, but Grantaire was shaking his head.

“What’s unprofessional is banning me from being involved when it makes no difference to the case,” he said. “When have I ever got in the way before?”

Enjolras scowled. “You get in the way all the time,” he replied, clearly irritated, but Grantaire was waving him off.

“Romantic involvement won’t be a problem, because we’re _literally_ at her wedding to another man,” Grantaire continued. “I can get us an in - she won’t mind telling me stuff, because she trusts me - and I _definitely_ will be able to tell if she’s lying or not.” There was a pause between them, and Grantaire added, a little pleading, “Come _on_. It can only help us.”

Enjolras let out a long and heavy sigh.

“I do the questions,” he ordered.

Grantaire smirked. 

“Sure thing, chief.”

* * *

“Should I assume my invitation got lost in the mail?”

Enjolras should have known really. He didn’t know why he ever let himself be fooled by him anymore, because he did this same thing every _god damn time_ -

The bride - Floreal - looked up from where she’d been sat, hunched over at a vanity and surrounded by the rest of her bridesmaids and some female family members. She looked beautiful - her ivory dress pristine, and her dark sleek hair in an ornate up-do. Only her red-rimmed eyes were the giveaway to the disaster her wedding day had ended up being.

Enjolras had expected her to blow up, honestly - he would have done if he’d had a friend die and an ex-boyfriend as…well, as _Grantaire_ as Grantaire was - and had turned up out of the blue on his wedding day. But after her initial shock at their entrance, she got up and launched herself into his embrace, pulling Grantaire in close to her.

Enjolras watched on, silently.

“ _Rod_ \- what the hell are you doing here?” she said into his ear, tightening her arms around him.

“Rod?” Enjolras murmured under his breath, raising a brow, but neither of them seemed to hear him.

“I’m doing research with the NYPD,” Grantaire replied. He pulled away a little so they were looking at each other, but kept his arms around her. “I didn’t even realise it was your wedding until I got here.”

Floreal’s face fell once more, and she let her head drop against Grantaire’s chest. “It’s a nightmare,” she whispered sadly. “I just can’t believe it. It’s all just so - so awful.”

Enjolras watched as Grantaire rubbed her back consolingly. “I know,” he said. “Lucky for you though we’ve got some of the best people on the case.” Grantaire looked up then, and back at Enjolras, who finally moved into action.

He stepped forward slowly, holding out a hand. “Ms. Beauchamp, I’m Detective Enjolras with the NYPD - I’m heading up the investigation.”

Floreal looked up when he spoke, and she slowly began to extract herself from her embrace with Grantaire. She took Enjolras’ hand as she replied, as dignified as someone could manage to be given the circumstances. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Enjolras continued, “I understand this is going to be really difficult for you, but I’m going to have to ask you some questions privately.”

Floreal looked upset, but nodded understandingly. She gave a look to the other women who all began to disappear into another section of the large bridal suite, and she settled herself back in front of the vanity.

“When was the last time you saw Sophie?” Enjolras asked, pulling up a chair and sitting close by. Grantaire grabbed a chair of his own, but placed it a little closer to Floreal - Enjolras did his best not to let his eyes linger on it.

“Last night, at the rehearsal dinner,” Floreal sighed. “I don’t even think I got the chance to talk to her - all this madness going on, you know.” She frowned. “She flew all this way and I didn’t even say a proper hello.”

“Weddings are busy - you can’t blame yourself,” Grantaire interrupted, and Floreal smiled at him sadly.

“I guess. I just - feel awful about it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since they found her this morning,” she said, shaking her head. “I went up to bed pretty early, about 11pm. I was tired out and left everyone else to the party.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Floreal I know,” Grantaire said with a charming smile. “What happened to the girl who used to force tequila shots down me and accused me of being boring when I threw them back up.”

And even with the unshed tears in her eyes, this gentle teasing from Grantaire seemed to lift the girl’s spirits. “Because the Floreal you know has grown up,” she replied, smiling back. “I’m very responsible now, if you must know.”

Grantaire smirked. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“So - that was the last time you heard anything from or about Sophie?” Enjolras asked, cutting off this conversation before it could veer off any further into irrelevance. 

Floreal very suddenly came back to herself. “Oh - yes. Yes, sorry. That was it - I went to sleep and only thought about her again when she didn’t turn up to get ready with us this morning. And well…you know the rest…” she trailed off. 

“Did you know if she had any enemies, or had fallen out with anyone recently?” Enjolras asked, and Floreal looked a little bit uncomfortable.

“Honestly…neither me or Greg have seen her for at least two years,” she admitted, looking a little ashamed. “She was the one who introduced us, so we felt like she should be part of the wedding but - we were never really close? I don’t know what she’s been up to at all recently, and she only flew in last night.”

Enjolras nodded, sombrely. “Thank you for your time,” he said finally, and stood up, pulling out a notepad from his pocket to jot down some notes. Grantaire remained seated. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Enjolras heard Floreal whisper. He kept his eyes steadfastly on his pad, but found his pen slowing down as he listened in shamelessly to Grantaire’s conversation with the bride - purely for information potentially useful for the case, obviously.

“I always did have a tendency to crop up where I wasn’t needed,” Grantaire said, and even without looking at him Enjolras could tell that he was smirking. “It’s the only consistent thing about me.”

“Still,” Floreal said. “Even if this is the worst day of my life…it’s really good to see you. It’s been so _long_.”

“Too long,” Grantaire agreed. “You look exactly the same, you know?”

“Good to know,” Floreal replied. “You’ve aged.”

“You bitch,” Grantaire said, but not unhappily. Enjolras heard Floreal laugh quietly - the notes he was meant to be taking were ending up looking like illegible scribbles now. “Clearly you have too though - the Floreal I knew told me that marriage was a jurassic institution.”

Floreal sighed a little. “Time passes, Rod.”

Now it was Grantaire’s turn to sigh. “And yet you still call me Rod.”

“ _That_ will never change,” Floreal laughed.

“Is your fiancé around, Ms. Beauchamp?” Enjolras said loudly, and the two looked up from their conversation, a little startled like they’d forgotten he was even there.

“He was,” Floreal answered, looking around the suite behind Enjolras. “He went to the bathroom not long before you came in. I think he went out to go see his groomsmen too - he said he wouldn’t be long.”

And as if summoned, a man in a well-made, expensive looking suit came into the room - Floreal stood up from her chair quickly, picking up her skirts and making her way over to him.

“Greg,” she said, taking his hand and bringing him closer to Enjolras and Grantaire, before he had chance to veer off into the other room with the rest of the group. “The detective wants to ask you some questions.”

“Of course - yeah, of course,” he replied. He looked flustered, but shook Enjolras’ hand firmly when he held it out. 

“We just want to know where you last saw Sophie,” Enjolras explained. “If you could tell us what you remember about last night.”

Greg was nodding. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, I didn’t really see her at all at the rehearsal dinner. Flor went to bed way earlier than I did. Teddy - my uncle Teddy - he wanted me to stay longer.” He huffed and smiled a little. “You can’t really say no to a drink with him, so I stayed up drinking with him until about…one? Then I went back to my own room, and went to sleep. I didn’t hear anything about Sophie again until this morning.”

“Separate rooms?” Enjolras asked for confirmation.

“You know how it is,” Greg said as he put his arm around Floreal’s waist and pulled her close. “We’re traditional like that - you can’t see the bride before the wedding.”

Enjolras saw Grantaire raise his eyebrows behind the couple, and he was suddenly thankful that they had their backs to him.

“Hmm.” Enjolras hummed as he made a little note. “If you can wait in here with the other officers while we continue collecting testimonies, we’d appreciate it. I hope you can understand given how big the hotel is, we have a fairly extensive investigation underway.”

Greg tightened his arm around his fiancée but was nodding, and Enjolras made eyes at Grantaire behind them for them to make their exit - but it was Grantaire’s motion to stand that caught Greg’s attention.

“And you are….?” the man started, tilting his head in questioning. Grantaire opened his mouth to answer, but it was Floreal that answered. 

“This is Rodrigo,” she said, pulling away from her fiancé to put an arm on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Rodrigo Grantaire.”

And in an instant Greg’s demeanour changed - his face fell, and his voice was flat when he spoke. “Your ex,” he supplied.

“It’s - uh - nice to meet you,” Grantaire offered after an awkward pause, and held a hand out. Greg looked at it for a long moment before taking it. “It’s weird that I’m here but - I was just explaining to Floreal - I’m doing research with the police at the moment.”

“Right,” Greg said, and Enjolras watched on as Grantaire just kept talking. 

“I didn’t even know it was your wedding until I got up here,” he continued, smiling. “I mean, crazy thing that’s brought us all here - and I didn’t even know Floreal was getting married at all. So I guess we’re all shocked to see each other.”

“Right,” Greg repeated. An awkward silence descended on the room, and despite himself Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to look away from the three of them. 

Greg’s eyes eventually turned to Floreal and he said, “We’d best start doing the rounds. Guests and family we need to talk to, you know?”

Floreal gave both Grantaire and Enjolras an apologetic smile as she took her fiancé’s hand, and they moved into the larger reception room of the suite, where the rest of the wedding party was. 

Enjolras and Grantaire’s eyes met.

“Wow,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire looked at him innocently. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras said, shrugging. After a moment he added, quietly, “ _Rod_.”

Grantaire winced. “Please don’t.”

Their interaction was cut short when Enjolras felt his phone buzz in his pocket; he pulled it out to read a message from Courfeyrac:

_Developments down here worth updating you on._

“We should head back downstairs,” Enjolras said to Grantaire, not looking up from his phone as he typed up a response.

“Sounds good to me,” Grantaire replied, and started moving towards the door with one more quick glance at the wedding party. “Can’t say I feel all too welcome anymore.”

Enjolras was about to follow Grantaire when he found himself typing out another text - one that he wasn’t entirely sure why he was sending in the first place.

_Apparently Grantaire has a history with the bride._

Combeferre, as reliable as he was, was mere moments in his reply. 

_Ancient, modern, or sexual?_

Enjolras couldn’t help but smile a little bit at that.

_All of the above._

A couple of seconds before the response:

_And you’re okay with that?_

Enjolras swallowed.

_Why wouldn’t I be?_

He didn’t bother waiting for the reply to that one, shoving his phone back into his pocket and walking over to the door Grantaire had held open for him.

* * *

“We have a missing groomsmen,” Courfeyrac stated as soon as Enjolras and Grantaire returned, with no preamble. “A guy called Mike Weitz - we’ve tracked down and talked to every other guest, and no-one knows where he is.”

“Eyewitnesses have put him with Sophie at the rehearsal dinner, drinking together,” Joly added gravely, and the four shared a look with each other. 

“Didn’t Floreal say her fiancé was out trying to talk to his groomsmen?” Grantaire said, his expression turning serious. “He looked a little flustered when he talked to Enjolras - why wouldn’t he have mentioned a missing groomsman to us?”

“Well, _that’s_ worrying,” Joly said, his eyes widening, but Enjolras wasn’t so easily convinced. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he admonished, his eyes flashing to Grantaire. “Just because you’re jealous, you can’t assume that the groom’s involved.”

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” Grantaire started, rolling his eyes, and Joly and Courfeyrac looked confused.

“What have we missed?” Courfeyrac interjected, his eyes flitting between Enjolras and Grantaire. But this comment was ignored; Enjolras had already continued, with a sharp tone.

“I knew you couldn’t be impartial about this,” he muttered, shooting Grantaire a disdainful look.

Grantaire looked as equally unimpressed back.

“ _How_ have I not been impartial?” he replied heatedly. “I let you ask all the questions you needed, and I didn’t interrupt _once_ \- I’ve not done anything!”

“Oh _sure_ ,” Enjolras said sarcastically. “Cuddling with the bride the minute we walk into the room is very impartial, _well done you_.”

And to say Joly and Courfeyrac looked confused at that would be an understatement. 

“Okay - _what -_ “ Joly started - but Grantaire was already waving that down.

“That’s different and you know it is,” he said angrily. “Floreal trusts me.”

“A small wonder, really,” Enjolras snapped, and Courfeyrac had finally had enough.

“Okay - I’m going to stop you both right there,” he said in a firm voice, stepping between Enjolras and Grantaire with his hands up. 

“This - “ he gestured between the two men, “ - is completely pointless and doesn’t help anyone.” He paused, and allowed a moment of silence for them both to settle down. “Now - _explain_.”

Enjolras huffed before answering. “The bride is Grantaire’s ex-girlfriend,” he said, gritting his teeth a little.

There was a beat of silence.

“Well that’s quite…unfortunate?” Joly offered, pulling an awkward face. 

“It’s _irrelevant_ ,” Grantaire corrected. “I don’t know what he’s got his panties in a twist over - it’s done and we’re on good terms. And her friend just _died_! What was I going to do, push her away?” Grantaire folded his arms across his chest and scowled. 

“It’s my business when you might get in the way of the case,” Enjolras said, shaking his head. “Like now, for instance - bringing up the groom when we’re meant to be discussing a groomsman.” Enjolras huffed and turned to his actual colleagues, leaving Grantaire to fume. “It sounds like this missing groomsman is our best lead then?”

Courfeyrac nodded, but his expression was still somewhat uneasy - he wasn’t the sort of person that liked leaving things unsaid. Clearly Enjolras and Grantaire still had a whole lot more to say to one another, but he knew that he had to be professional and this really wasn’t the time for them to hash it out. 

“I ordered eyes out for him the minute we realised, but we haven’t found him yet,” he said, sighing a little. “I’ve had guys cordon off his room - bed’s made, tux is still hanging in the closet and the keycard said last entry was at 2 a.m.”

Enjolras sighed too, nodding. “2 a.m.,” he repeated to himself, thoughtful. “Any signs of foul play?”

“No, but his bags are still there,” said Joly. “Doesn’t look like he was expecting to leave any time soon.”

“APB’s are already out?” Enjolras asked, and the two cops nodded. “So we have eyes if he tries to leave the city - there’s not really much more we can do right now until someone finds him. I guess our next move is to review some of the security footage.”

Courfeyrac nodded, and started to lead the group out and to the lobby. Grantaire followed a little way behind, still sulking slightly.

“The hotel told me that they have cameras in the reception hall where the rehearsal dinner was, as well as the lobby and elevators,” Courfeyrac explained as they walked. “Hopefully they’ll have been able to monitor at least some of Sophie’s movements from last night.”

They reached a small room not far off the hotel’s lobby, and the four men were ushered inside - one of the hotel security guards, accompanied by one of their own officers, were sat in front of the screen, and turned and acknowledged Courfeyrac as they all entered.

“We’ve found the victim at the dinner,” the officer said, turning back in his chair as the group came over to watch the screen over his shoulder. “Nothing much has happened so far - she didn’t talk to many people - but she _did_ take a phone call at some point before leaving.”

The guard, under instruction, went back to play the section of the footage in question, and they all watched as the blurry figure of Sophie looked at her phone, while another man walked around the room wildly gesturing - presumably making a speech, given the way the rest of the room was watching on.

“Taking a call during a speech?” Grantaire said as the grainy-looking woman picked up the phone - and finally beginning to let go of any anger left over from the little tiff he’d just had with Enjolras. “Rude.”

“And who’s calling her when all their friends are in one room?” Enjolras asked. He looked at the security guard. “And she leaves after that call?” The guard nodded in confirmation. “What’s the time of the call?”

The guy squinted at the screen. “7:41 p.m.”

Clearly understanding where Enjolras is going with this, Joly pulled out his phone and started to scroll furiously. “According to her phone records we’ve pulled that call came from…the hotel lobby,” he said, glancing back up at Enjolras.

Enjolras frowned, but he looked determined. “Do you have cameras on the phones in the lobby?” As the guard gave the affirmative to this too, Enjolras’ expression changed from determination to something vaguely pleased with himself. “Excellent - pull up that footage from a couple of minutes before the start of the call - maybe we’ll get a look at our mystery caller.”

The guard set about this task, and there was a tangible excitement in the air as they seemingly took a step closer to answers. And then at the sight of a tall man dressed all in black walking up to the pay phones in the footage, this excitement ramped up even more.

“Is there any way to zoom in on that?” Grantaire asked, excitedly leaning in, and after a few moments the guard had paused and got a close up of the guy’s face.

“I recognise him,” Joly whispered, his face scrunched up in concentration.

Courfeyrac looked over. “This department or your last one?” he asked.

“Oh definitely the last,” Joly said, moving closer. He shook his head, clearly thinking hard. “The name will come to me, but he’s definitely a dealer - coke and weed back in the day, from what I can remember.”

“So she was buying drugs off him?” Grantaire asked.

“Probably,” Joly said, shrugging his shoulders. “But he was caught assaulting another dealer a few years back, so he has a history of violence too.”

Enjolras straightened up then, and the other three seemed to subconsciously follow his lead. “We’ll take a copy of that shot and send it to the station,” he said. “They can properly identify him and we can bring him in about both the drugs and the murder - hopefully he’ll have something to say.” He looked back to the security guard. “After we’ve got a copy of that can you see if you have footage of an exchange or where either of them go afterwards? Thank you.”

The man set about his work, but before Enjolras could continue, a uniformed officer opened the door, red in the face and a little out of breath.

“Sorry to interrupt, Sir,” he said, his eyes a little wide as he addressed Enjolras. “But we think we might have located Mr Weitz.”

* * *

When the missing groomsman, Mike Weitz, was finally freed from the locked linen closet at the end of a relatively empty third floor corridor, he was sweaty and frantic. The staff member had barely pulled the key from the lock when the man was barrelling out of it, swearing.

“Where’s that bitch Sophie,” he said, without any prompting. “I’ll kill her.”

Grantaire choked back a laugh. 

“Timing - very poor,” he tried to explain when the man looked at him questioningly, while Enjolras stood by, looking markedly less amused. 

“What happened?” Enjolras asked, his face dark.

Mike scowled back, wiping the sweat away from his brow. He didn’t look healthy at all - he was a sickly kind of pale and sweaty all over, as well as being weak on his feet too, having to lean against the wall to even keep himself standing. 

“That bitch Sophie Ronson drugged me,” he spat out.

Enjolras raised a brow, but didn’t immediately respond. Instead, after a moment, he turned to the hotel staff member and asked calmly, “If you wouldn’t mind getting Mr Weitz some water?” 

When the staff member scuttled off, he turned back to the man in question. He was still breathing heavily and looking at Enjolras with a confused expression, as if surprised at just how sombre the tone of the conversation was.

“Can you walk us through exactly what happened last night, Mr Weitz?” Enjolras asked evenly, and Mike swallowed.

“She came onto me is what happened,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “Acting all flirty and touchy - bought me a drink and everything.”

“A drink spiked with roofies?” Courfeyrac prompted.

“Yeah, I mean - who does that?” Mike asked, leaning back against the wall. “What girl roofies a guy? All she needed to do was ask.”

Grantaire saw Enjolras swallow down a complaint at this, clenching his jaw as if having to physically stop himself from commenting. “Do you two have a history?” he asked finally instead, his voice clipped.

“Nah,” Mike said, shaking his head a little, not noticing Enjolras’ tense gaze. “We saw each other at the engagement party last year, but I don’t think we even talked then.”

“Why would she want to drug you?” Joly asked this time, and Mike shrugged.

“Who knows?” he replied. “I can’t say I even really know her.”

“Did she seem okay?” was Enjolras’ next question. “Angry, nervous or scared?"

Mike shook his head, and dabbed his face with his shirt again. Thankfully the hotel staff member was returning with a glass of water in just that moment, which he took a few gulps from gratefully. He spoke again after a few moments. 

“She just seemed like - confident. Determined? I guess, maybe…” he trailed off. “I dunno, I didn’t think about it.”

Enjolras nodded and was quiet for a few moments, before saying. “Please let us know if you remember anything else. Detective Joly will ensure you get appropriate medical attention.” He gestured and Joly nodded, stepping forward. “He’ll also update you on the situation and what exactly we’re investigating.”

Mike looked confused, but Joly had already moved forward to help the man to be steady on his feet, chatting away cheerfully as he led him away down the hallway. Mike just followed in a startled daze.

“So,” Grantaire started slowly. “What the hell was Sophie Ronson doing last night?”

“Buying drugs to roofie a guy she barely knows?” Courfeyrac said. “Who knows? I’m so lost.”

Enjolras’ brow was furrowed. “She really went out of her way to buy those drugs - as far as we know she was only in town for a few hours, so she must have had a specific reason for it.” He sighed. “Come on - I want to have another look in Mike’s room, the other guys might have missed something.”

Courfeyrac nodded and started leading the way, with Enjolras and Grantaire not far behind. Enjolras pulled his phone out and started furiously texting, and Grantaire watched him for a few moments - until he felt someone else’s gaze on him -

\- which was when he looked up he saw Courfeyrac smirking at him.

“So your ex-girlfriend, huh?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. It should have been ridiculous, but Courfeyrac had a strange ability to make the ridiculous look completely normal. He was special that way.

Grantaire allowed himself a quick look at Enjolras, who didn’t even slow in his typing at the change in conversation topic.

“Uh, yeah,” Grantaire started, a little uncomfortably at first. “We met in high school, but we ended up dating into college.” He allowed himself a little smile though, thinking back - he doubted there’d ever be a time when he’d look back on his time with Floreal and be truly sad. “Four years,” he said finally, and smiled at Courfeyrac.

“That serious?” Courfeyrac asked, matching Grantaire’s smile with his own kind one.

“Oh yeah,” Grantaire said, slipping his hands into his pockets as they all stepped into the elevator. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Courfeyrac said, as he pressed the button. “But from what I saw of her earlier - she’s not really what I thought was your type?”

Grantaire thought about this for a moment. “Yeah, I guess she’s not,” he said, thoughtfully. But then he smirked. “I mean, she used to be a bit more of a partier, don’t get me wrong - but she always was way smarter than me.”

Enjolras tilted his head a little, but his eyes were still firmly on whatever conversation he was having on his phone.

“So what happened?” Courfeyrac asked, his tone casual. “I mean obviously you don’t have to tell me, but - “

“Nah, I don’t mind,” Grantaire said, shrugging his shoulders - and he didn’t, not really. He might have with someone else, but Courfeyrac had that canny ability to make you feel comfortable about talking about this kind of stuff.

“I dunno - we just kind of went our separate ways?” Grantaire said finally. “She was going to Harvard Law and I was still getting blackout at frat parties. I think she outgrew me, and both of us knew it - and I loved her too much to hold her back. So.” 

He shrugged again - he couldn’t stop shrugging. He guessed it was the best way to try and convince Courfeyrac (and himself) that this was all casual. That talking about it still didn’t remind him of feelings that had been buried deep in him a long time ago.

Courfeyrac was quiet, and his smile was sad while also strangely comforting. But the silence felt awkward to Grantaire, and he didn’t want to stew in it anymore than he had to.

“All for the best really,” Grantaire said in a cheery tone and smirking again in an effort to lift the mood. “She’s a super lawyer and I graduated from frat parties to just getting blackout in my own apartment.”

The elevator dinged at their floor, and the trio started making their way down the decadent looking hallway.

“Hey - don’t say that about yourself,” Courfeyrac replied, grinning properly again. “You have your own bar to get blackout in - that’s classy.”

Grantaire snorted. “I’m not sure how Feuilly would feel about that place being called classy, but I’ll let him know.”

“I’ve started getting contact out through the appropriate channels,” Enjolras said, cutting across Courfeyrac and Grantaire. He had lifted his head sharply, and effectively ended the conversation with the other two men, bringing them back to the case. He tucked his phone back in his pocket, and was staring ahead, determined. “We’ll be getting information back at the office about Sophie’s background, financials, travel - hopefully we’ll be able to piece together what happened since she got to New York.”

“Efficient as always,” Courfeyrac replied, smiling warmly at his friend as they reached a door protected with police tape. “This is Weitz’s,” he confirmed, and pulled out a key card to open the door. 

All three of them took turns to duck under the tape and step inside, and the door closed behind them with a loud click.

Nothing had been moved since the preliminary search for Mike - his bag was propped up near the bed, sheets seemingly untouched, and nothing looked incredibly amiss. The three men instinctively moved in different directions to scope the room in a little more detail - Courfeyrac to the bed and drawers, Enjolras to the desk, and Grantaire to the bathroom - but Grantaire didn’t get far before Enjolras stopped him with a quick hand to the chest.

“Gloves,” Enjolras said, firmly, pulling out two pairs from his pocket. Grantaire rolled his eyes, but took a pair silently, and took off to the bathroom without another word.

“I doubt it was Mike that killed her after seeing the state he was in,” Enjolras heard Courfeyrac murmur from across the room, where he was carefully opening drawers and peering inside.

“No, probably not,” Enjolras agreed quietly. He opened the top desk drawer, but found it empty; he closed it with a soft click. “But if his keycard said he entered here at 2 a.m, that says to me that someone else got in here after he’d been drugged.”

“You think Sophie drugged him to get his keycard?” Courfeyrac said, adding up what Enjolras was implying. “What for?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Enjolras replied, finishing up looking through the other desk drawers to no avail. “I was hoping there’d be something in here that would give us a clue.” He paused, and looked around thoughtfully, before asking himself out loud, “What is so important it’s worth drugging a man to get into his room?”

“Uh - guys?”

Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked up and paused at Grantaire’s call from the bathroom.

“Yeah?” Enjolras called back hesitantly.

“Do we know if this room is connected to the next one?”

The two detectives immediately abandoned their own searches and ran to Grantaire in the bathroom, where he was stood facing a door that was ever so slightly ajar. The three men paused a second as they took in what they saw.

Grantaire broke their silence. 

“It’s weird that that’s not locked, right?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Right,” Enjolras agreed in a murmur; he stepped forward then, clasping the handle and slowly opening the door to reveal a room as empty as the other one - only this one’s bed had very clearly been slept in.

They all stepped into the room, drifting off in different directions again, and eyes sharp as they took it all in for the first time. 

“Do we know who’s staying in here?” Enjolras asked Courfeyrac who shook his head.

“Not off the top of my head,” he admitted, pulling his phone out. “The hotel gave me a list though, so I can find out easy enough. If that’s 677, it would make this one…”

“Huh.”

Grantaire’s small noise wasn’t loud, but it was enough to capture Enjolras’ attention. There was a question on the tip of his tongue, but it died immediately at the curious look of interest on Grantaire’s face as he gazed down at the floor.

Intrigued too, Enjolras moved around the bed to get a look at whatever had grabbed Grantaire’s attention - and just as Enjolras reached him, Grantaire began to speak again.

“Apparently Sophie _did_ come in here,” he said evenly. “Because that looks like a woman’s earring on the floor.”

And so it was - a small gold hoop laid haphazardly next to the foot of the double bed.

“We’d need to get confirmation from the photos of the other earring,” Enjolras said slowly, also now looking at the earring with as much interest as Grantaire had. “But it looks like we might’ve found our missing earring and the site of our struggle.”

“And who she struggled with,” Courfeyrac said solemnly, holding up his phone. Enjolras and Grantaire finally looked up again to face him as he dropped the bombshell. 

“This room belongs to the groom - Greg Murphy.”

* * *

It didn’t take long to conclude that the earring they’d found did indeed belong to Sophie, and was the one that was missing from her body - and it didn’t take much longer after that for the entire room to be closed off for prints and evidence collection, and for the team to be compelled to take Greg into the station for questioning.

“It’s hard to fight _that_ kind of evidence,” Joly had sighed, eyes wide when he’d been updated. “Yikes.”

“Yeah - yikes,” Grantaire had muttered back, unable to keep himself from looking back at Floreal. 

She had looked even more distraught than she had that morning, watching her fiancé being loaded into a police car. She wasn’t crying - she didn’t really cry, not really, Grantaire already knew that about her. Her eyes welling up had been as close as Grantaire had ever seen her to actually crying _,_ even when they were breaking up _._ But even from across the room he could see the emotion she was trying to hold in, the distress etched into her expression. 

And look - _yeah_ , Grantaire had been the one to suggest that Greg had some involvement earlier, but it wasn’t like he’d _wanted_ that to be the case. No matter what Enjolras had incorrectly inferred, Grantaire wasn’t jealous of the guy - he wasn’t, he swore it - he just…had his suspicions, was all. Truly, he didn’t want Floreal to have to go through that kind of heartbreak.

He was an asshole, sure, but he wasn’t _that_ much of an asshole.

It had hurt, seeing her like that, even after all this time. Grantaire wasn’t heartless. She was his friend, first and foremost, and had been since the day she’d sat next to him in Freshman Algebra. They might not have been as close as they used to be, but his heart just didn’t forget all that they’d been through together, no matter how long it might have been since they’d actually spent any time together.

Enjolras had been in the interrogation room with Greg for a while now - Grantaire was observing behind the glass in the next room with Captain Valjean, who was keen to check in with their progress. 

There hadn’t been any question about whether Grantaire would be allowed into the interrogation room too, Enjolras had made that very clear - he’d set Grantaire with the Captain and marched out again without any opportunity for discussion. Joly and Courfeyrac weren’t even there to back him up - there was far too much evidence, new information and paperwork to be processed at their desks to stick around, and they’d disappeared as soon as they’d reached the station.

So Grantaire had stayed where he had essentially been dumped as dead weight, sulking while watching Enjolras interrogate the groom.

By the looks of things through the glass, Enjolras was finishing up - Greg was cradling his head in his hands, while Enjolras stood up shuffling his files, much like he’d done on that first day when it had been Grantaire sat opposite him.

Now Grantaire just watched on from the other side of the glass, unusually and morosely silent.

“Long day?” Valjean asked eventually, breaking that silence and looking across with a kind twinkle in his eye.

“You could say that,” Grantaire replied glumly. Enjolras re-entered the room then, pushing his blond curls out of his face in an aborted gesture.

“The suspect was very firm on the fact he didn’t kill Sophie Ronson from the outset,” he started, with no preamble. “He repeated the same story from earlier today that he got back to his room at about 1 a.m. after staying up drinking with his Uncle Teddy - but now he admits that he _did_ see Sophie later that night. According to him, she snuck into his room at around 2 a.m. and tried to make a move on him - he initially reciprocated, drunk and thinking it was his fiancée -”

At this Grantaire snorted, and cut Enjolras off from his tangent. He shot Grantaire a sharp look.

“Anything the problem, Mr. Grantaire?” Enjolras asked.

Great - they were back to _that_ shit again. Whatever - Grantaire pressed on. 

“You believed that?”

“I didn’t _believe_ anything,” Enjolras said tightly. “I’m as healthily skeptical as I need to be of suspects.”

“I thought you were meant to be interrogating him, not coddling him,” Grantaire muttered, scowling as he turned away from Enjolras to face the screen again.

Enjolras looked like he was about to bite back, but Captain Valjean interjected with his gentle request,

“Continue, Detective.”

Enjolras obliged, but only after shooting Grantaire another quick glare. 

“When he realised it was Sophie he panicked and pushed her away onto the floor, which was when she ran out. That was the last time he saw her.” He paused, before continuing, a little more hesitantly than before. “I pressed and he confessed that he and Sophie had slept together before his relationship with Ms. Beauchamp.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened at this, and he spun around quickly to face Enjolras again.

“He referred to it as ‘a mutual mistake’,” said Enjolras, who, along with the Captain, studiously ignored Grantaire’s visceral reaction to the news. “And one that he thought Sophie had no interest in repeating, which was why he was so shocked it was her ‘of all people’ - in his words.”

Captain Valjean was nodding. “Thanks for the update, Detective,” he said, making a move towards the door. “I’m impressed by the speed of the investigation, as always - keep up the good work.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room’s ensuing silence was hostile. 

“So why didn’t he tell us this earlier?” Grantaire said, finally taking the bait.

Enjolras let out an exasperated huff. 

“He said he knew how it would sound,” he explained.

“What - you mean like what it _did_ sound like? A _lie_?” 

Grantaire’s retort was sharp, and all of a sudden Enjolras seemed to have had enough.

“You know Mr. Murphy specifically asked for you not to be in the interrogation room?” he started hotly. “He said he saw how involved you’d been in the investigation and he didn’t trust you to be impartial.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and shot back, equally as agitated, “And what, you thought that was the perfect opportunity to kick me out?”

“Well, actually, I happened to agree with him,” Enjolras spat, his expression transforming into something that Grantaire thought resembled disgust. “You have no place in an interrogation room, especially not for this case.”

Grantaire snorted derisively. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_ Mr. Murphy believes you have it in for him and that you still have feelings for his fiancée!” Enjolras shouted. He took a breath, and added a little more calmly, “And I’ve not seen enough reason to disagree with him yet.”

Grantaire was astounded. 

“Are…are you kidding?” he managed to spit out, blinking furiously. He was so shocked he could barely find it in himself to be angry - he was just staggered by what Enjolras was trying to imply. “You - you genuinely think I would try and put a guy away to - what - bone his fiancée?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes in frustration, and muttered, “Don’t be ridiculous,” but Grantaire had started talking, and couldn’t be stopped now.

“You really think I’m _that_ much of an ass, that I’d do that?” he asked, eyes wide in his disbelief. “Like I’d actually jeopardise a whole case - potentially try and throw a guy in jail just because I used to date his girl?” Grantaire couldn’t even look at him now, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

“There’s no need for the dramatics,” Enjolras said coldly, and at this Grantaire’s anger finally caught up with him again.

“ _Dramatics_?!” he shouted, and he threw his hands up in the air - Enjolras’ eyes widened a little, obviously startled. “You think you can go about insulting me like that - and I’m just meant to stand here and take it?” Grantaire was scowling at him. “God you’re a piece of work, I hope you know that.”

Enjolras scowled right back. “And _you’re_ not listening what I’m trying to say,” he grit out, each word sounding like it was taking him a lot of effort to get out. 

“Well share with the fucking group,” Grantaire spat, folding his arms. 

“What I’m saying,” Enjolras said, “is that having personal connections to cases can sometimes make people less impartial, and more likely to misjudge.” He was making an effort to make his voice sound even, but his expression betrayed his frustration. “And we also can’t have any chance that a potential defendant has reason to doubt our integrity.”

Silence fell between them, but it was hostile. Both men were at separate ends of the room, and the distance between them was beginning to feel like a huge crater - and neither one of them were willing to offer to cross over to the other side.

Enjolras waited for a few moments, willing Grantaire to reply, but the silence dragged on and Grantaire kept standing there defensively, glowering.

“He’s still our best suspect - but we don’t have nearly enough evidence to prosecute him yet,” Enjolras said finally, quietly. “Which you would realise if you weren’t so personally invested in it.”

He stormed out then, and the door shut behind him with a pointed click.

* * *

 

The silence of his apartment was driving Enjolras crazy.

It had been an awkward few days with him and Grantaire since their blow out after Greg’s interview, and they’d basically not spoken to each other since. 

As always, Courfeyrac and Joly had given him questioning looks, but Enjolras had studiously ignored them every time they tried to meet his eye. No doubt their questions would start with a ‘ _What have you done?’_ , and frankly he had no desire to deal with their accusations.

Grantaire was an easy going guy with them - they got along with him, and he had a reputation around the precinct for being approachable and fun. Enjolras’ reputation was distinctly different. Most of the time this didn’t bother him, but concerning Grantaire, now, it really, _really_ did. 

When they fought, Enjolras couldn’t help but notice that even his close friends seemed to immediately assume that it was _his_ anger that was the problem, rather than Grantaire’s. They didn’t seem to take into account how Grantaire needled him - that it was _Grantaire_ who had an incessant need to talk back to him - it was _Grantaire_ who had to try and prove him wrong at all costs.

And Enjolras knew himself - he knew that he could be intense, and blunt, and someone that was hard to please - but he couldn’t help but bristle at the idea that everyone always assumed that _he_ was the one to blame. Granted, Enjolras knew he needed to try more to let things go (he wasn’t so completely ignorant of his own flaws), but _this_ time? This time was entirely different.

Enjolras was following NYPD protocol. More than that - he was doing what he knew was best to keep Grantaire at an arm’s distance from this investigation. So far, he’d seen no evidence to suggest he was in the wrong. 

More than that he’d been proven _right_ \- they didn’t have enough evidence to keep Greg in their custody, and his uncle Teddy had come to bail him out not long after their blow out, the elder gentleman leading his subdued nephew out with a firm grip around his shoulders.

Enjolras didn’t even need to be looking at Grantaire to feel the weight of his dissatisfied glare.

But why should he be the one to hold out the olive branch when he’d taken all the right steps? And when Grantaire had so clearly been led down the garden path by his own emotional connection to the case? 

Still, even _with_ his determined sense of righteousness, Enjolras couldn’t help but mull it all over again and again well into the evenings. He was sat on his couch hours after leaving the precinct still thinking about the case every night, and trying to drown his sorrows in watermelon and terrible reality television.

“What good are you if you aren’t turning my brain off,” he eventually complained at the screen one night, and clicked it off with a scowl. 

He sat there for a long while after that, in front of the blank screen and just _thinking_ , furiously - and it was an hour or so later after that when he resigned himself to go seek out some of his team in person. 

It happened, from time to time - despite what some people might have believed, he _did_ have a life outside of his work. It wasn’t such a random occurrence to want to seek out his colleagues’ company on an evening, so he didn’t think anyone would find it so unusual for him to want to hang out with them outside the station. They were his friends, after all.

And it definitely didn’t have anything to do with the fact he couldn’t stand how they seemed to have wordlessly taken Grantaire’s side over his. Not one bit.

He started at Courfeyrac’s apartment - it was within walking distance, and Enjolras had wanted the walk to calm him down a bit. It worked, mostly, and he was feeling a little more himself when he’d reached his friend’s building, even allowing himself an optimistic smile. Only, when he buzzed he got no answer.

It wasn’t all too strange given Courfeyrac’s penchant for New York nightlife, but Enjolras couldn’t help but feel him something sinking within him when he realised his mistake. Stupid of him, really, to not check before setting off. 

It was finally an enthusiastic text from Joly that revealed Courfeyrac’s location - they were together, it happened, at The Old Haunt with Grantaire. Joly had dropped him a pin with the address, but he already knew where it was - it was the bar that Grantaire owned.

The other two guys had taken it as their new drinking spot for post-work outings given the almost criminal discounts they got for knowing the owner (no cop in the city was ever going to turn down a bargain like that) - but Enjolras had never visited himself. He’d been invited often enough, sure, with Courfeyrac needling him every now and then, but every time something had stopped him from saying yes. 

Enjolras swallowed, his throat dry, as he sent off a quick text back to tell Joly he was on his way.

He made his way there in haste - he was already out and he’d already mentally committed to seeing his friends, so it seemed the only thing to do. At least, that was what he told himself. 

But he’d also have been lying if he said he didn’t feel little bit of hesitancy gnawing away in his stomach ever step he took closer to the bar.

He entered briskly when he got there, not bothering to dawdle about outside and give himself time to regret his decision to come, and the heavy door closed behind him with a forceful thud as he stepped inside.

It wasn’t big - not many bars in this part of town were, with the old buildings so tightly compact together - but the space deceived you in a way that made it feel open. The light was dim, and the furniture and decor were an effortless rustic, industrial chic. 

He gave a little nod to the barman, who smiled briefly back before continuing to scrub down the bar top. It wasn’t hard to find them all - Joly, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Joly’s boyfriend Bossuet, and a large, heavy set man Enjolras didn’t recognise were the only ones in there, all lounging round a large table at the back, playing cards and drinks in hand.

Enjolras walked up to them, one eyebrow raised at the dollar bills on the table, and asked, “Poker - really?”

Only Grantaire turned to look up at him, the others all far too focused on the game at hand. A lazy grin spread across his face, no doubt at Enjolras’ obvious disdain, but his smile held none of the bitterness that had been blighting them for the last few days.

It was strangely pleasant surprise, and Enjolras was almost hopeful that their stalemate had passed. But he supposed after a moment that the almost empty glass in Grantaire’s hand might have something to do with his newfound friendliness.

“Well, you see, we started with poker,” Grantaire began, cheerfully. “But we realised pretty quickly that Lesgles here has an _awful_ poker face - and Courf’s grasp on the rules were flimsy at best. So we had to find something a little better suited.” He turned his gaze back to his cards again, eyeing them seriously before looking up and asking, “Joly, do you have any fours?”

“Nah, Go Fish.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Pulling another card from the deck, Grantaire slumped back into his seat and finished the last of his drink. “This game is shit.”

“Correction - _you’re_ shit,” the large man laughed. He leaned back then and called over to the man behind the bar. “Feuilly - something obnoxious and fruity please.”

The barman - Feuilly, apparently - laughed back, and set to work. “Coming up.”

“What brings you out, Detective?” Courfeyrac asked then, with a cheerful smile on his face. 

Enjolras grimaced. “My apartment was starting to feel claustrophobic.”

Courfeyrac’s face softened slightly, and he shuffled closer to the other man next to him in the booth to make room for Enjolras. He patted the vacated spot, and Enjolras dutifully perched next to him.

“This is Bahorel,” Courfeyrac said then, leaning back and finally introducing the man next to him. “Grantaire’s roommate.”

“My squatter, you mean,” Grantaire heckled from the other side of the table, his voice slightly muffled by the drink he was knocking back.

“And you let me get away with it,” Bahorel snorted. “So which one of us should be embarrassed, really?” He turned finally then to face Enjolras, and offered a meaty hand to shake across Courfeyrac.

“Nice to meet you,” Enjolras offered.

“We’ve met,” Bahorel replied, blunt; but the amused quirk of his lips told Enjolras that he wasn’t offended. “I was four drinks deep at the bar when you came to arrest Grantaire.”

Enjolras frowned, thinking back. “I wasn’t arresting him - “

“ - You had me worried for a second. I thought he’d finally done something stupid enough to land him behind bars,” Bahorel continued, talking over Enjolras without even blinking. “I always knew the day would come, I just didn’t think it would happen while he was still making some moula.”

Grantaire grinned sharply from across the table. “And you know when I’m going down, I’m dragging you with me, baby.”

“The two of you doing some dumb shit together and landing yourselves in jail?” the barman, Feuilly, said. He’d appeared at the table with Bahorel’s cocktail in hand - bright orange and with a tiny umbrella to match. “Sounds about right.”

“Would you fight to get us out?” Bahorel asked, turning his head round to face him and talking over Courfeyrac and Enjolras’ heads. “We’d definitely be guilty, so we can’t ask the cops.”

Feuilly considered this for a moment. “Probably for Grantaire, ‘cos he pays me.” He smirked then. “But jail time would probably do you some good. You can rot.”

“Dick,” Bahorel replied while Grantaire cackled. “You’re first on my hit list when I start a gang from jail,” he called out as Feuilly retreated back to the bar with a smirk on his face.

“Can I be your lawyer?” Bossuet asked then. “I could do a whole speech about what a stand up citizen you are - ‘generous - thoughtful - a man who always makes sure everyone has a drink’.”

Bahorel’s fist slammed down on the table. “You’re hired.”

It was Joly’s turn to laugh then. “Oh yeah, _that’s_ who you’ll need in criminal court case - a _family_ lawyer.” Bossuet gasped dramatically next to him. “I love you,” Joly added, patting his boyfriend’s arm in mollification. 

The conversation descended further into chaos after this point, and Enjolras continued on sitting in a comfortable silence, smiling at the group’s banter back and forth over their cards.

It was a few rounds later that Enjolras caught Grantaire picking up his phone out of the corner of his eye. There wasn’t anything particularly suspicious about it that drew Enjolras’ attention in his direction. Courfeyrac had shuffled past him to go and get him and Bahorel another drink, and for some reason Enjolras’ gaze had happened to land on the author when he turned back to the group.

He wasn’t sure why it lingered there, but he couldn’t help but notice the the peculiar expression that formed on Grantaire’s face as he looked down at his phone - and then the strangely hasty exit that followed it.

“Well, I’m out,” Grantaire exclaimed suddenly, throwing his cards down with a dramatic flourish, while Joly and Bossuet made sounds of dismay.

“You scoundrel!” Bossuet exclaimed, dramatically. “Just because I was about to steal your twos.”

“No-one likes a sore loser,” Joly agreed, fumbling around awkwardly with his mouth to try and catch his straw.

Grantaire rolled his eyes good-naturedly and pulled a handful of notes to dump on the table. “Compensation,” he said, grinning and standing up. “As fun as it’s been losing my money to you all, I have shit to do.” He starting backing away from their table and held up his hand in a parting gesture. “ _¡Nos vemos!_ ”

A chorus of goodbyes sounded and the man turned his back and retreated.

“Where’s he off to?” Courfeyrac asked, returning to the table and jerking his head at Grantaire’s figure slipping out of the door.

“Fuck knows,” Bahorel replied, accepting what looked like a Cosmo from Courfeyrac. “Our unspoken house rule is don’t ask questions.”

Much like Bahorel, the others didn’t seem too concerned - Joly had already started distributing Grantaire’s money around the table. “Get shuffling the cards, Boss, we’ve got money to make,” he said, and suddenly once again all the men’s attention was back on the cards.

“Move up, blondie,” Courfeyrac said quietly, bumping his hip against Enjolras’ shoulder. The movement brought Enjolras suddenly back to himself, and finally forced him to look away from the door that he’d just watched Grantaire disappear through. 

Instead on moving to make space for his friend though, he stood up. 

“I think I’m going to head out too,” Enjolras said quietly. “It’s late.”

Courfeyrac looked like he was going to press him for an explanation for a moment - but after a brief pause, he just clasped his friend’s shoulder and gave him a quick squeeze.

“Get home safe, bud,” he said, and he pushed Enjolras gently away. 

And then Enjolras was able to slip out quietly, just like he wanted to.

* * *

_Meet me at our place._

It had been years since he’d had a message like that from her - it had been years since he’d even talked to her before this whole case happened, and then suddenly - a text - 

_Meet me at our place._

And there he was, back on their favourite bench in the park they used to spend hours in together - and it weirdly felt like no time had passed at all. Without even thinking about it ( _he couldn’t help it_ ) his hand drifted over to his corner of the bench, and after a moment he felt the indentation - the letters ‘F and R’ that his own pen knife had carved there all those years ago.

Grantaire swallowed, and retracted his arm sharply.

The air was biting, and the ice cold of the bench was seeping through his pants the longer he sat there - he was thankful to have been a few drinks in when she’d texted, as his alcohol jacket was keeping him from feeling the worst of the cold. 

But still, there was nothing that could compel him to move then. The minute he saw her name flash up on his phone and the following message, he’d ditched the group and come without even questioning it - she’d _asked_ him here. So he’d come. 

And he wasn’t going to ask questions, even now, because she’d never asked questions of him. Of all the ridiculous and stupid things Grantaire had done, when he’d called her and asked for her help at stupid o’ clock, she’d _always_ come - and she’d _never_ judge. Even now, he couldn’t offer her anything less than what she’d done for him.

This was just how they did things, no matter how many years they’d spent apart.

“Is this how weddings are supposed to go?”

Grantaire whipped his head around then at her voice, and his eyes landed on her - Floreal, stood not too far away. 

Her bright face stood out against the dark of the night around them, and his eyes couldn’t help but drift to the red circles around her own eyes. Even now, it made something in him pang painfully.

He swallowed again, but remained silent as he shifted to the side slightly, making room for her to take a seat next to him. 

“My bridesmaid is dead,” she started after a beat, moving forward slowly. “My fiancé is a suspected murderer, and my ex appears out of nowhere to investigate it all?” She took the seat next to Grantaire gently, but still wasn’t really looking at him. “I don’t know how to deal with all of this,” she admitted finally, in a whisper.

Grantaire’s heart clenched as he took her in, all broken and frail. It just seemed so utterly wrong to see Floreal, his pillar of strength, to be reduced to this. And it took all he could muster to quell the rage in his heart for whoever had caused her to hurt.

“I don’t think there is a right way to deal with all of this,” Grantaire said, not for a second taking his eyes off her. “God knows you’ve been holding it together better than most people would’ve.”

Suddenly her head fell forward into her hands, and she curled up into her knees, letting out a harsh sigh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered into herself. “I don’t know.”

There was a lump in Grantaire’s throat, and he couldn’t help the hand that began to rub her back. “You don’t need to know what to do,” he tried to console her. “You’ve gone through a huge shock…you need time to deal with all of it.”

They sat there for a few minutes in silence as she breathed and he soothed - but Floreal looked up then finally, her eyes glistening with tears as she turned her head to watch her ex-boyfriend. 

“This feels weird,” she said, eyeing him almost suspiciously. “Like we’re the wrong way around.”

Grantaire couldn’t help the fond smile. “I know. Usually you were the one rubbing _my_ back when _I_ was crying.”

“I’m sorry,” Floreal whispered, her face crumpling again in an effort to stop anymore tears from falling, but Grantaire shushed away her apology.

“Think of it as us making it even,” he said, smiling gently as his hand continued to rub her back. “All the times you looked after me over stupid shit. Let me have this one time looking after you over some big shit. It’s only fair.”

This at least got him a snotty laugh from her, and Grantaire felt warm - he’d forgotten she was actually someone who laughed at all of his mistimed attempts at humour.

They sat in silence for a little while, looking out over the empty park in front of them. When Floreal did speak again, she seemed to have moved passed the tearful hysterics she’d greeted him with.

“Greg told me,” she said quietly. “About Sophie being in his room.”

“Does he know you’re here?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure what answer he wanted to that question.

But she shook her head.

“I just told him that I needed to go for a walk.”

She leant back then, and added with a small sigh. “He said was sorry - sorry that it even happened, and sorry that he didn’t tell me straight away.”

Grantaire turned his head to look at her again then. “And you believe him?"

Floreal didn’t answer that - she just turned to face him, head on, and smiled a watery, sad smile. 

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

“I’ve missed you too,” Grantaire said back, honestly. 

When Floreal moved forward, he didn’t stop her. 

It was so familiar that he almost immediately lost himself in it. Instinctively, he tilted his head and pressed forward into the kiss, his hands reaching out to caress her cheek like he was nineteen again. He’d always marvelled at the way she felt in his hands - so aristocratic and perfect, always in contrast to how he felt big, bumbling and rough. 

God they were _kissing_ \- this was _Floreal_ and he was kissing her again. His vulnerable, desperate teenage self had wanted to cling to this feeling for the rest of his life - the softness of her cheek under his hand and the way her perfect nose felt pressed up against his. He’d ached and cried and hurt at the thought of never having this again. 

And yet.

Under his thumb was a wetness - the remnants of tears that were so unlike her. Tears she’d shed over a man that she wanted to marry - a man who should have been her husband right then if everything had gone to plan. 

The act of Floreal and Grantaire kissing was safe - it was easy, going back to being those kids again. But none of the rest of their contexts made sense anymore, not now. She wasn’t the girl that he’d preserved in his head, and he wasn’t that broken boy she’d tried to fix. 

“Floreal,” he murmured softly against her lips. He pulled back a little, but she either didn’t hear him or was purposefully ignoring him, as she chased his lips forward and pressed on, firmer. She gripped the collar of his coat forcefully, pulling him back in, and he let her for a moment - until he covered her thin, shaking hands with his own, coaxing her to lessen her grip. 

“Floreal,” he repeated. “You don’t want this.”

She stilled, finally. 

Grantaire didn’t really want to move in case it sent her running, but thankfully she began to move backwards slowly herself. They sat there for a while in silence, neither willing to be the one to break the fragility of whatever was happening between them. Their faces were still close enough to feel one another’s hot breath searing their cheeks, so he was able to hear her when she whispered ever so quietly: “When did you get so responsible?”

“After years of therapy that exposed all my crutches.”

She snorted, and pulled away decisively then. Grantaire could finally let out a breath of relief - the moment was broken. Whatever tension had built up between them melted away almost as if it had never happened.

“You know when I read about you in the news, I wouldn’t have guessed you’d changed like this,” she said bluntly, and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile gently at it.

“I didn’t say I gave up _all_ my crutches,” he replied, and at Floreal’s raised brow, he just shrugged. “Eh - there _may_ have been some bullshit about healthier coping mechanisms somewhere.” He went quiet then, thoughtful. “I still found ways to sabotage myself though. You know me.”

When Grantaire chanced a sneaky look back over at his ex, she was watching him with a funny look in her eyes that he wasn’t really able to place. There had been a time when he’d been able to read her like an open book - he supposed that time really had passed.

“You’re happy?” she asked eventually. He nodded, and she gave him the first genuine and wide smile he’d seen her give since he last saw her all those years ago - even it was tinted with her lingering sadness. “So am I,” she said. “I mean, before all of this, I - _we_ were - happy. This shouldn’t be happening to us.”

“No. It shouldn’t.”

They were silent for another few moments before Floreal started to gather herself, quickly wiping away the last evidence of her tears from her cheeks and tucking back her hair behind her ears.

“I should…probably go home,” she said, and Grantaire followed her movements as she stood from their bench.

“Do you want me to - “ he started to offer, but she cut him off before he could finish.

“No, it’s alright,” she said, looking out across the park. “I feel better now, I think. I feel calmer, at least.”

Grantaire nodded, moving to stand next to her. “Let me get you into a cab,” he said. He took her answering shrug for the acquiescence that he knew it was, and they both started walking to the nearest street.

“It was probably unfair of me, walking out like that,” she started. Grantaire gave her a questioning look and she elaborated, “I mean, not letting Greg know that I’m safe when there’s a murderer on the loose.”

Grantaire didn’t really know what to say to that, so he did what he did best and deflected, hard.

“If it makes you feel any better, I have it on good NYPD authority that there’s definitely more than one murderer on the loose in this town.”

Floreal came to a complete stop.

“In what world would that make me feel better?” she asked, eyes wide. When Grantaire shrugged, she just punched him in the arm and muttered, “Dick,” under her breath. 

Both of them were still smiling to themselves when they reached the roadside and had hailed a cab over. 

Floreal paused as she was getting in, and in the next look she shared with Grantaire, a million unsaid things hung in the air between them, neither one of them either willing or able to voice them.

“Thank you,” Floreal settled on. “And I’m sorry.”

“No apologies necessary,” Grantaire replied.

Somehow both of them knew that they were talking about more than just tonight.

One last final smile was shared, and then Grantaire was watching the cab speed off down the city street. 

He stood there for a little longer than he cared to admit - at the very least, it was some time after Floreal’s cab had disappeared in the New York night. 

There’d been a terrible and aching hole in his heart when she’d left him - no matter how often he’d been over it, in his own head, writing it out into his fiction, to therapists, he _knew_ she’d needed to go, and he was thankful she’d made the final decision to leave. But even knowing that deep in his heart hadn’t made the act of letting her go hurt any less.

Though now, as terrible as the occasion for it was…he could feel in himself that hole starting to feel truly healed. It was like a question mark that had been hanging over them for so many years was finally disappearing.

He’d loved her - madly - and yet he’d been able to pull away when she’d kissed him. Until it had happened he wasn’t sure that he’d ever have had it in himself to do that. If you’d have asked him even yesterday, he wouldn’t have been sure. But he’d done it.

_….Was this what personal growth felt like?_

He got the feeling he and his therapist were going to have a field day whenever he next decided to drop by.

And thinking about it, he should probably do that sooner rather than later.

With a small smile on his face, Grantaire shoved his hands in his pocket and turned on his heel, ready to head home after what had been a very long and frankly _weird_ day. Only he was stopped quite suddenly when his eyes landed on a figure that was stood a little way from him.

As Enjolras stepped out of the shadows, Grantaire finally found his voice.

“What the fuck,” he managed to get out - less of a question, more of a statement, given his genuine surprise - but the question came soon after. “What - what are you doing here?”

Enjolras’ face was stern, and the street lights framed his golden curls - it gave him an unearthly glow, making him look like an avenging angel who’d come down to rid the world of its sins. Despite himself, Grantaire let himself ruminate in the clenching feeling in his chest as he looked upon him.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” the angel said - but then his lips quirked into a frown, and Grantaire felt all of his anger hit him at once. It felt like walking into a brick wall, as he remembered that Enjolras had no business in being here - and the implications of him happening to be here were…upsetting to say the very least. 

“Did you - “ he started to ask, breathless in his disbelief. “Did you follow me here?”

“I told you to stay away from her,” Enjolras said, ignoring Grantaire’s question, and Grantaire couldn’t help but feel like they were back in that interview room again, sniping at each other over the very same subject. This though, Grantaire thought as his blood boiled, this was different.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, ignoring Enjolras right back. “You _tailed_ me?”

Enjolras didn’t even flinch at the acidity of Grantaire’s tone. “Can you honestly tell me that I didn’t have reason to?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire said threateningly, but still Enjolras’ didn’t have the courtesy to look even a little bit apologetic. “You have no right.”

“I have every right,” Enjolras snapped. “I’m leading a murder investigation. Floreal Beauchamp is a suspect.”

Grantaire blinked.

“She’s…” Grantaire kept blinking, furiously. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

“She currently has just as much motive as Greg Murphy does,” Enjolras said evenly. Except Grantaire knew what that tone meant - it wasn’t tempered, it was condescending, and all it did was stoke Grantaire’s outrage. “A bride finds out the night of her wedding that her bridesmaid tried to make a move on her husband?”

“I can’t believe this,” Grantaire said, again, because he genuinely couldn’t begin to fathom what was happening. There was an uncomfortable feeling settling somewhere deep in his stomach - he felt vulnerable, violated somehow, and he was helpless to bite back at whoever was near him. “If you’d _asked_ me you’d know that she didn’t even _know_ about Greg and Sophie until today. You tell me all the time that I’m being ridiculous? Well let me tell you, you’re grasping at _fucking_ straws now.”

Enjolras’ eyes flashed angrily then. “Oh, am I?” He stepped forward, moving in on Grantaire. “Because the way I see it all you’ve done so far is prove my point."

“That point being?”

“That you still have feelings for her and it’s stopping you from being objective!” Enjolras snapped. Grantaire scoffed, and made a move like he was about to walk away, but Enjolras grabbed him by his upper arm and dragged him back in to face him. “Or do you kiss all of your ex-girlfriends like that?”

Grantaire swallowed then - he’d been so swept away in his emotion he’d almost forgotten everything that Enjolras would have seen if he’d followed him all the way from the Old Haunt.

“You saw that?” he asked, his tone sharp. And because he couldn’t help himself, “What did you hear?”

Enjolras’ gaze glinted with his anger. “I saw enough,” he said, letting Grantaire’s arm go roughly, now it was clear he wasn’t going to try and make a hasty exit. “I told you very clearly to stay away from her.”

“You don’t understand -“ Grantaire started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“I understand _completely_ ,” he bit, watching Grantaire with only half-masked disgust in his expression. “Your attachment to her is _unbelievably_ inappropriate for a police investigation. All you’ve done is prove me right and right again - this _thing_ you have for her? It’s making you _blind_ , Grantaire.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but Enjolras wasn’t finished - he took a step in closer, his eyes flashing with his own outrage as he continued.

“You don’t think so?” he asked, heated. “Because the you that _I_ know wouldn’t just settle for the most convenient answer, which is what you’re content in doing recently. Aren’t _you_ always the one telling me to consider every possibility? Isn’t it _you_ that constantly reminds me to look past my own expectations and assume the worst? She’s blinding you from addressing fundamental facts about this investigation, and if you took _one_ second to think about it, you’d realise it. And I don’t need someone in my team who’s dragging along dead weight.”

And even through all of that onslaught, the thing that cut Grantaire the most was the look of disappointment Enjolras shot him with his parting words - 

“Don’t bother coming back to the precinct until you’re interested in doing some serious detective work.”

Grantaire remained rooted to the spot as Enjolras turned and walked back down the street, disappearing into the New York night just as quickly as he’d appeared.

 

* * *

It was probably a good thing in the end, that their latest blow up had come just before what they’d come to dub as a ‘Grantaire weekend’.

The author didn’t often spend every day in the precinct with them, for obvious reasons - as fast-paced as their job could sometimes be, there were just as many slow days of trolling through information and evidence, writing reports and liaising with other departments. It didn’t make much sense for Grantaire to be around for all of that - he wasn’t even getting paid to be there when he _was_ there, so it only followed that he’d only drop by for check ins or when the ‘interesting stuff’ happened. Not to mention that he did actually have his own life and job to be getting along with.

So yes - sometimes, Grantaire wasn’t in their office. 

And for now that meant there were no awkward, hostile silences and accusing looks from his other colleagues - and Enjolras was eternally thankful for that fact. 

Neither Joly nor Courfeyrac had any idea that anything had happened between Enjolras and Grantaire following the group’s ‘poker’ night. If anything it seemed the two of them had just attributed the two’s strange disappearance that night to lingering awkwardness over their last fight - and Enjolras was keen to let them continue to think this was the case for as long as he was able. 

He hadn’t been able to keep the incident completely to himself though - Combeferre, naturally, had been on the end of a very frustrated phone call the next day at lunch. 

“Tell me I’m not being unreasonable for being angry at a colleague for kissing a suspect,” Enjolras had asked while he picked at his sandwich, and Combeferre had replied dutifully. 

“You’re not being unreasonable,” he said, his tone as even as ever. “If anything I’m more surprised you haven’t tried to haul him into Valjean’s office to get him kicked out.” 

Enjolras had fallen silent at that, still pushing around his lunch while his friend continued. “If his main function is to aid you, and he falls under your jurisdiction then you’re well within your rights to decide what is and isn’t appropriate for him to do - and if he’s not listening to you —“

“— I’m not mad because he’s - _insubordinate_ ,” Enjolras huffed. “Don’t get me wrong, I am annoyed by that and he drives me up the wall because of it, but I’m not a - a _tyrant_.” He paused, trying to articulate his thoughts. “It’s not that he’s not listening to me. It’s that he’s not thinking about the _case_.”

Combeferre had been silent then, letting Enjolras continue. 

“If you’re not thinking objectively, then what’s the point? You can’t do the job properly. And it’s frustrating when I know he’s usually perfectly able to. And obviously the fact that it’s completely fucking inappropriate.”

Combeferre had hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t think anyone can blame you for being very aware of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that I think maybe you’re more sensitive than you might realise to - well - the issue of being attached the cases,” he had replied, as diplomatically as possible. “And for good reason, so don’t let anyone give you any crap for it. And if they do, send them my way - I’ll have a few things to say to them.”

After taking a breath to collect himself, Enjolras had thanked him, quietly. He was grateful when Combeferre had taken that moment to completely change the subject and start talking about an article in the Times that he’d wanted to pick apart with him since he read it. It had taken Enjolras’ mind off everything for the rest of lunch, and when he ended the call to get back to work, he felt significantly lighter.

Still, Combeferre’s concise and scarily accurate assessment of Enjolras’ feelings - combined with his ever-subtle way of breaking the news of those feelings to Enjolras, who was always ignorant of them - had given the detective something to mull over.

He was willing to admit then after a few days worth of distance from the incident, that tailing Grantaire… _maybe_ hadn’t been his finest hour. No matter how right he might have been in his suspicions, or how justified he had been in his anger over Grantaire’s actions - there were other, more personal things that had influenced his own actions that day, and he needed to address that, privately, with time, and not drag Grantaire so obviously into it.

So, when he walked into the office one morning not long after and saw Grantaire, there was part of him that was gearing up to the fact that he might have to apologise to him - even though he still really had no idea whether he’d come to terms with everything around the incident yet, and had no idea how to approach it because of that. 

And, on top of all that he was _still_ angry with Grantaire. Being aware of all the other stuff didn’t just make all of his other negative feelings go away.

Trying to reconcile all of that together was making for a hot mess in Enjolras’ head.

Only, it turned out he didn’t even get a chance to consider any of that, because Joly grabbed Enjolras’ attention before he’d even finished stepping through the door.

“HE BOUGHT US NEW COFFEE!” Joly hollered at him across the room, gleaming from where he was hovering in the doorway to the break room.

Enjolras couldn’t hide his confusion as he walked over to his desk, giving his most valiant effort not to make it so obvious that he was avoiding all eye contact with Grantaire. “What?”

“Grantaire,” Joly said, gesturing to the man, as if this explained anything. “He bought us a new coffee machine. He’s saved us.”

Finally then, unable to put it off any longer, Enjolras chanced a look down at Grantaire who was lounging in Enjolras’ chair, as if nothing had changed between them since they had last been in the office together. Only, he was already watching Enjolras with a strange intensity when he turned to finally face him.

“Coffee?” Enjolras asked - it wasn’t eloquent, but he was still feeling a little too off-kilter to come up with much else.

Grantaire shrugged. “I know how much you all live off the stuff and how garbage your machine was. We all need decent coffee if we want to keep doing - uh - ‘serious detective work’.”

Something in Enjolras jolted as he recognised his words being repeated back to him from that night. For an awful moment he felt annoyance flare in his stomach, at the thought of Grantaire mocking him for it.

Yet there was nothing acidic or biting to Grantaire’s tone like there usually was when he was trying to get under Enjolras’ skin - and Enjolras searched the man’s face for any sign of smugness, but came up short. If anything, Grantaire’s expression was uncharacteristically guarded, and his words forcefully casual. 

It took Enjolras a beat, but as he held Grantaire’s steady gaze for a few seconds, he realised that this very well might be the man’s own offer at a quiet apology.

Huh.

Enjolras…hadn’t really expected that. 

Apologies were not something either man were used to from the other - their usual technique was letting their anger stew and peter out over time, and to go on with their lives until one or the other forgot they were even mad at the other. Time consuming and annoying as it was for the people around them, it worked for Grantaire and Enjolras -mostly because it meant neither of them had to back down, which would always suspiciously feel like letting the other win. 

And granted, he hadn’t actually said the _words_ \- he hadn’t even got close to saying the words, but in the months they’d known and worked together, Enjolras wasn’t sure whether he’d ever seen Grantaire tentatively offer a truce like this.

Enjolras swallowed. 

“Well…I’m not one to say no to good coffee,” he said, after a beat.

Grantaire shrugged again, still staying uncharacteristically quiet, but continuing to gaze up at him with a carefully masked intent.

As angry as he had been, some of the heat of it seemed to die down - and some combination of his own re-emerging rationality and a suspiciously Combeferre-like voice in his head finally pushed him to offer something back.

“Thank you,” he said, eventually. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Grantaire replied, as close to nonchalant as he could muster. Enjolras nodded, and something resembling their normal awkward silences seemed to descend on them.

That, at least, was something they could both deal with.

* * *

Grantaire tried to not let his eyes linger on Enjolras, he really did.

He couldn’t help it though. The man’s long, slender fingers were cradling his mug - a mug that was filled with coffee from Grantaire’s shiny new machine. Enjolras didn’t seem to be really thinking about the cup (his attention, as always, was on the work being laid out in front of him), but he was holding it close to his body, like he was protecting it.

Enjolras had gone to inspect the new coffee machine not long after he’d arrived, seemingly pushing past Joly and Courfeyrac to get close it, as he came out of the briefing room not long after with a drink in his usual mug. He’d not said anything to Grantaire after that point - he’d just taken a seat at his desk, sipping away, and fiddled with one of the few bits of decor that cluttered his desk - what looked like a large ceramic paperweight, shaped like a trio of elephants. 

Grantaire had asked where he’d got it before, just because it seemed like an impossibly ridiculous thing for a man like Enjolras to have on his desk. He’d just answered with a quick, “It was a gift,” and an added, “I like elephants,” before moving on.

It was one of the many small tidbits that Grantaire had warmed in ways he’d never anticipated, or could really understand. Still, he treasured it, in the same way he treasured watching the moments Enjolras laughed out loud at something, or the way he seemed to subconsciously cherish and protect his morning cup of coffee.

He ought to have been writing it down, really - they were bits of the character that could be added to Rick Angel. Detailed characterisation, all that shit. That’s what he was paying attention for - those special details that made a character come to life.

Eventually though, as always, he had to force himself to look away - there was actual work to be doing, which allowed him to actually stay in the precinct. Grantaire wrenched his gaze from him and his coffee cup and back to Joly who was updating the rest of the team on his progress. 

“Good news about the roofies,” Joly said cheerfully, stepping up to the whiteboard, his favourite red pen in hand. “If there ever _can_ be good news about roofies - according Gamble, that’s all he sold Sophie. And she very specifically reached out to him for Rohypnol and nothing else.”

Joly leant over and plucked the man in question’s mug shot from the board. The drug dealer Joly had recognised from the security footage hadn’t taken all that long to identify - Boyd Gamble. They’d brought him in for questioning not long after with some help from Joly’s old department, Narcotics. 

“The hospital confirmed Mike Weitz ingested Rohypnol - _and_ we’ve been able to account for Gamble’s location for the rest of the night - ” Joly held up the mugshot to emphasise his point. “ - at the _other_ side of the city.”

When he stuck Gamble’s mug shot back on the board, it was no longer under their main suspect list. 

Joly sighed. “Narcotics have taken him in over the drug charges, but given all that it doesn’t look like he’s our guy.”

“He still could have been an accessory,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “We don’t even have a real motive yet.”

Enjolras hummed from his seat, sitting up straighter now that Joly had finished. “It’s too early to rule out his full involvement, but I think we need to re-shift our focus.”

He stood up then, and Joly offered Enjolras the pen before he took his own seat as Enjolras continued.

“Our timeline so far,” he said, his voice stern. “At some point in the late evening, Sophie drugs groomsman Mike Weitz in the bar. When he’s incapacitated and locked in the third floor closet, she uses his keycard to gain access to the Greg Murphy’s room - seemingly to make a move on him and which subsequently failed.”

“Labs didn’t find any traces of semen on her,” Courfeyrac confirmed, flicking idly through the file in front of him.

“My questions,” Grantaire started, piping up for the first time. “Why go through all that trouble of buying drugs - _just_ to try it on with the groom? How did she know that Weitz’s room even connected to Murphy’s in the first place?”

It took Enjolras a few moments, but he began to nod slowly to himself, turning to look at the board thoughtfully.

“The whole thing seems very pre-meditated,” Joly agreed with Grantaire. “Both bride and groom claimed to no longer be close with her - if she hatched the drug plan completely by herself, it seems weird she’d know about the rooms unless somebody told her in advance.”

“Especially considering what we heard from the guests,” Courfeyrac said, he rolled forward in his chair to point at a note they’d scribbled in the corner for their consideration. “More than one person I talked to thought that she wasn’t even going to come because she’d dropped out.”

“Did anyone say why she’d changed her mind?” Grantaire asked, and Joly shrugged.

“The bride and groom both claim she didn’t even really tell them why she was dropping out in the first place,” he said. “Apparently she was evasive, and they mutually agreed not to pry. By the time she called back to say she could come, they were just pleased and didn’t even think to question it.”

“Which begs the same question from before,” Grantaire continued, “if Floreal and Greg weren’t close with her, and she was close to dropping out - why would she have known _anything_ about the wedding plans, let alone room numbers of guests?”

“If she was acting alone, her actions are erratic - and we _can’t_ completely rule it out,” Enjolras said. “ _But_ …that doesn’t explain why someone would kill her. Another person being involved with whatever this ‘plan’ of hers was would explain both how detailed it was, and give us a main murder suspect.”

Joly sighed. “The problem is _who._ ”

“And _why_ ,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “We still have no idea what was to be gained from this ‘plan’ in the first place. It seems too organised and extreme to be just her trying to sleep with Murphy. What was there to gain?”

“He’s a trust fund kid,” Grantaire suggested. “Seems a weird way to get it, but money’s a big enough motivator as any.”

Courfeyrac frowned thoughtfully. “It’s possible, but there’s still too many gaps that need filling in. We have nothing to suggest that except that he’s rich.”

“Well whatever it is, it was so valuable that it was enough to murder her,” Enjolras said grimly.

“Of course, there’s still the obvious explanation,” Joly offered. “Greg followed her back to her room and killed her during an argument. Or Floreal found out about Sophie making a move, and a similar thing happened.”

“There’s no security footage of either of them on the obvious routes to Sophie’s room,” Courfeyrac said. “But there are other ways they could have got there.”

Enjolras eyes were emphatically avoiding Grantaire. But, surprisingly, the man did not protest this thought in any way. It was a relief, but Enjolras was keen to move on from the subject, lest the two of them linger too long subconsciously on their argument.

He sighed, rubbing his jaw.

“We need to piece together everything that she did from the minute she landed in New York. There’s too many questions right now, and all of them seem to come back to her and her odd behaviour.”

“Our warrant to investigate her finances finally came through yesterday,” Courfeyrac said. “So we can start there.”

Enjolras nodded. “If you’re on that Courfeyrac, Joly can start on more follow up - I want contact with taxi companies, stores she might have visited, whatever else…we need to go through this with a fine tooth comb, and maybe something strange will show up.”

The group looked as if they were about ready to disperse when Enjolras held up his hand and made them pause. 

“One last thing before we go,” he started. “Combeferre sent some updated lab reports this morning. He found traces of metal in the abrasions on Sophie’s back - he’s sent samples off to the FBI labs to analyse the chemical signature, but for now we don’t know what metal it was. _But_ , if we find the object that made the wounds, he’ll be able to match it easily enough.” His eyes flicked over to the author then. “Grantaire and I will be following that up today.”

Grantaire dry swallowed, but nodded back. 

It had been a rough few days, alone in his apartment. It should have been alarming to him really, thinking back on how most of the days seemed to blend into one - even thinking back on them now it was hard to pick through the haze that had settled over him. 

He didn’t know why he did it, but at one point he remembered drearily hunting through old photo albums, and found one of him and Floreal, arm in arm outside her college dorm. He sat for a long while, looking at the skinny boy, with dark circles around his eyes and greasy curls, clinging happily onto his girlfriend - she was holding him up, her grip on him visibly tight, even through the lens of a camera. 

Bahorel had walked in on him at one point, and pointedly asked him what he was doing. Grantaire had just quietly slurred, “S’just a photo.”

“That’s not a just picture, dude,” Bahorel had replied, uncharacteristically gentle. “It’s a loaded gun.”

The thing is though - is - well - Grantaire wasn’t sure Bahorel was right. 

He wasn’t looking at his younger self and thinking of all the things he expected he would have been thinking, or feeling what he should have been feeling. His thoughts weren’t in the _past_ \- they were stuck in the here and now, _this_ investigation, and everything Enjolras had said to him the other night cycling around his brain again and again.

He didn’t say any of this though, obviously. He’d tucked himself back in bed, turned over and shut his eyes, willing that heavy guilt lodged at the bottom of his stomach to dissipate. 

And it did, eventually; not completely, but enough for him to get up and out, and to throw himself into life ignoring it. 

Now he was back in the precinct, everything normal. Him and the team were ready to be off and do some work, with nothing changed. He could live with that.

Their briefing was over, and Enjolras stepped forward to wrap it up.

“We’ve had a lot of speculation that we need to unpack,” Enjolras murmured solemnly. “But without evidence, speculation is all it is. As of now our primary suspects remain the same.”

The team silently moved into action, Grantaire dutifully following Enjolras outside, as the photos of Floreal Beauchamp, Greg Murphy and Sophie Ronson stared down at them from the board.

* * *

Enjolras wasn’t particularly paying too much attention to his surroundings as he stepped into the elevator. He was wearing his patented ‘pissed off’ look that he always got when he was deep in thought, and in general that meant that people in the precinct tended to stay out of his way. Courfeyrac had joked once that if people gave _him_ as wide a berth as they did Enjolras he’d be worried that everyone hated him.

Enjolras did not share this same concern.

The fact of the matter was it kept people from interrupting his stream of consciousness and ruining his flow with inane chatter about their day. Like, _yes, Janice, I agree that it’s terrible the third floor toilets are flooded, but I’m on the brink of solving a murder case, so can you bother Joe from Sanitation with this news instead?_

So yes, people knew better instinctively than to stop in the hallway with non-work related news, and for that he was infinitely thankful.

With that in mind, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to know that he wasn’t paying any sort of attention to his surroundings when none other than Floreal Beauchamp stepped into thevery same elevator with him.

It was only her startled “Oh!” that even alerted him to her presence, and he was brought immediately back to the present when his eyes finally focussed on her. In the moments it took him to even take in the fact that she was there, she’d already gathered herself, and offered him a smile in greeting.

“Detective Enjolras.”

“Ms. Beauchamp,” he replied after only a moment’s hesitation. 

He wondered briefly how he’d already ruined the conversation when she sighed heavily at his response, but she elaborated only a second later.

“I was hoping I’d be Mrs Murphy right now,” she explained, her expression sad. Enjolras wasn’t really sure what to say in response to that - he pushed the button for his floor, finally, and the doors shut, locking them both in.

_Wrong decision_ , Enjolras’ brain supplied.

The awkward silence that stretched on after the elevator dinged seemed endless; no matter how hard he tried Enjolras couldn’t help thinking back on what he’d seen the other night.

He thought whatever peace terms he and Grantaire had wordlessly come up with this morning meant he’d let it go - but this was the first time he’d seen Floreal since he’d spied her kissing a man that wasn’t her fiancé, and he honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about it - and he _certainly_ didn’t know how to act around her. 

He tried to pick up the conversation again in an effort just to stop his thoughts getting away from him.

“I can’t imagine things are easy at the moment,” he offered consolingly, and this seemed to be the right thing to say.

“No - I can’t really say anything has gone to plan,” she replied, a sad rueful smile gracing her elegant features. “Seeing Rod again though - I honestly don’t know if I’d be dealing with this without that little bit of luck. Everything’s just so…surreal.”

Enjolras made a noise at the back of his throat, and he was immensely thankful that it sounded like a thoughtful hum rather than the involuntary choke that it actually was. 

Floreal looked at him then for a little moment, as if she was considering something. Then she asked, “So I hear he’s writing a book about you?”

Enjolras’ jaw clenched painfully as his stomach twisted. There was a reason for his well-maintained silence on that particular subject - he wasn’t particularly ready to _think_ about it, let alone talk about it. But here, he’d been backed into an awkward corner, and he had to manage to stutter out something vague.

“I wouldn’t say _about_ me - I think more - loosely based on me, maybe,” he said. “He has a very over-active imagination,” he added, with a small frown. “I imagine somehow it’ll get away with him.”

Floreal nodded, considering this. 

“Well, I can’t wait to read it either way,” she said, kindly. “Especially now I’ve met you properly.” She paused for a brief moment, and looked away from Enjolras and back to the closed doors of the elevator. “I still read all of his books.”

Interest sparked in Enjolras that he couldn’t really explain - he blamed his inner cop, wanting to know every detail, and tried not to feel too weird about pressing on with his question. “Was Grantaire writing when you knew him?”

“Oh yeah,” Floreal said, smiling still. “He’s always been scribbling away writing something or other.” She paused, and then laughed to herself a little. “Sorry,” she apologised immediately. “It’s just weird hearing you call him that - Grantaire. To me he’s just…Rod. No matter how much he hates when I call him that.”

Enjolras didn’t really have a response to that, and he clenched his jaw again. He was thankful that only a second letter the elevator arrived at his designated floor, and he could make his hasty exit.

He flashed his eyes over to Floreal, and she seemed to recognise his look as the dismissal it was. “Nice to see you again, Detective,” she said, as he stepped out into the hallway. “And overactive imagination or not, Rod wouldn’t write about you if he didn’t care about you in some way.” She shrugged. “Try and remember that.”

She let the elevator door slide shut, and Enjolras was left staring after her helplessly, trying to figure out what the hell that meant.

He was still mulling over her words ( _care about you in some way_ ) when he came up on Joly and Courfeyrac at their desks later in the day. Joly looked up as he approached, and greeted him cheerfully, “Hey, man!”

Picking up his coffee, Joly followed Enjolras over to his desk, flicking Courfeyrac’s ear on his way over to grab the man’s attention. “Floreal Beauchamp was here while you were gone,” he explained. “She was asking about the case’s progress - I think she got sent down to meet with someone higher up.”

Enjolras nodded, and when he replied, he was avoiding their eyes. “I ran into her in the elevator.”

And even though he wasn’t looking at either of them, Enjolras knew that Joly and Courfeyrac were sharing a long look with each other behind his back.

“She seems nice,” Courfeyrac said eventually, his eyes back on Enjolras as he sorted through papers intensely at his desk. “She was asking about why Grantaire was here - about the book he’s writing.”

Enjolras was silent as he kept flicking through the files he was holding.

Courfeyrac continued. 

“You know Joly found a dedication to her in one of his old books.”

Enjolras finally snapped the file shut. “And?” he asked, taking the bait.

“ _And_ , we just think that’s interesting,” Courfeyrac explained, gesturing between him and Joly, who was nodding furiously. “That he dedicated a book to a long term girlfriend, and now he’s writing a book about you.”

Enjolras could only roll his eyes, turning back to his desk and his work. “Well _I_ think you’re a bunch of old gossips,” he said, drily. “When I’m not here do you braid each other’s hair and debate about which Jonas Brother’s the cutest?”

“No,” Courfeyrac protested. “But for the record, it’s Nick.”

“I’ve said it before and I say it again - you’re _crazy_ ,” Joly interrupted. “It’s definitely Joe.”

Successfully distracted, Courfeyrac turned in his chair to face Joly. “Can we at least agree Kevin is the most talented?”

“Sure - but don’t think I’m just going to drop the Nick thing.”

Enjolras smiled to himself and let the two continue bickering behind him.

* * *

Over the next couple of days a lot of new information came in, and not all of it was very helpful. Labs had finished examining the clothes and rooms of Sophie, Greg and Floreal. There were no fibres on any of them or in Sophie’s room that could connect either the bride or groom physically to the crime. Not only that, but there were absolutely no red flags in either of Greg’s or Floreal’s finances, which they’d both willingly offered up to be investigated.

So, as Grantaire secretly expected, there wasn’t any real evidence that could connect Greg or Floreal to Sophie’s murder in any convincing way. Good for Floreal and Greg, but pretty bad for the cops - they had come to a dead end on all of their main suspects. 

There were, however, some interesting developments when it came to Sophie herself. It became clear as Joly tried to track the girl’s every move from arriving in New York, there was a full day and evening that she was unaccounted for - her plane landed on the Thursday morning, but she didn’t check in to the hotel until the next day. What had she been up to in that time, and who had she stayed with?

Joly and Courfeyrac had been sent off to visit one of the places they _did_ know she’d visited at some point during her trip - the bridal store, where her dress had been left for her to pick up and pay for. In the meanwhile, Grantaire had stayed back at the station, and invited back in members of the wedding party for secondary interviews. 

They spent a good chunk of the day working through the family members and close friends - the bride and groom’s parents, Greg’s Uncle Teddy, the other bridesmaids and groomsmen - and every single one of them claimed to know very little about Sophie, and confirmed the first time they’d seen her had been on the Friday. No-one, it seemed, knew anything much about the girl, let alone where she’d been the day before she arrived at the hotel.

It seemed they were dealing with another cold lead, when Greg’s mother offered an illuminating criticism of the girl.

“Who knows where she was,” Stella Murphy had said, unhappily. “I’m sure she was up to trouble anyway.”

“Why would you say that?” Enjolras asked

“She was a strange girl,” the woman replied, with distaste. “And I’ll tell you where she _was_ on the Friday - shopping away to her heart’s content in the hotel store. The nerve of it.”

“How so?”

“Well it’s wrong, isn’t it?” she said, incredulous. “She was going around telling us all she’s broke and asking me to pay for her flight, and the next second she’s on a shopping spree in front of me.”

It was twenty minutes later when Stella had left and Grantaire and Enjolras were finally alone to speculate.

“Do you think that’s why she nearly dropped out?” Enjolras asked. He’d stormed back over to his desk, and started flicking through some of the files that had been dumped there. 

“Because she was broke?” Grantaire said. He shrugged. “Makes sense. Except for the fact it absolutely doesn’t - how can she suddenly go from being broke to buying loads of shit without us being able to trace it?”

Enjolras kept flicking through the files. “Courfeyrac had all her financials - all her credit cards were maxed out months ago, and her balance wasn’t faring much better,” he said. A moment later he found the documents he was looking for, and cracked it open. “Eighteen dollars,” he confirmed, a second later.

Grantaire couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “And how much do we know she must have spent over the course of this wedding? A bit more than twenty bucks.”

“Her last cash withdrawal was before she even flew to New York,” Enjolras said, his brows furrowing in concentration as his eyes scanned the file. “She took out a hundred bucks a while ago. But even then, we know from Gamble that she paid at least two hundred dollars on the drugs in cash. How did she afford that?”

“The _drugs_?” Grantaire laughed. “Have you ever been a part of a wedding party? How did she pay for the _dress_? Not to mention shoes, flights, hotel.” Grantaire shook his head. “She’s got to have spent at least three grand. And that’s at the _very_ least.”

The two of them shared a serious look.

“So how did she pay for _any_ of that?” Enjolras asked. “Who would fund those purchases?” Shaking his head, he spun in his chair back to face his desk. “We need to make some calls.”

Half an hour later and the two of them were left just as confused as more of Sophie’s financial situation came to light.

“Apparently she paid for her last three months rent in cash,” Enjolras told Grantaire as he spun back around to face him. “As well as her flight.”

“Having that much cash to hand is _very_ sketchy,” Grantaire replied. “It sounds like whoever’s giving her that money wants to avoid a paper trail.”

“You guys are going to lose your shit.”

Courfeyrac announced his and Joly’s arrival in his naturally dramatic fashion. Joly was a little way behind him, pulling off his coat, and Courfeyrac was holding up a USB - but both of them looked very excited.

“Turn’s out the bridal shop was a gold mine,” Courfeyrac continued, sitting down at his computer. Grantaire, Enjolras and Joly followed, and gathered round the screen as Courfeyrac set up the footage to show them. 

“There’s Sophie,” Joly started, pointing out the girl walking out in his bridesmaid gown. “And there,” he continued pointing to an older gentleman turning around to finally face the camera. “Is one of our wedding guests.”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire let out. “That’s Greg’s Uncle Teddy.”

“We interviewed him again this afternoon,” Enjolras explained, a frown forming on his face. “He told us he didn’t know Sophie, and that he hadn’t seen her until the Friday like the rest of the guests.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Well he definitely lied - this was taken on Thursday afternoon, and he was the one who paid nearly a grand for her dress.”

“He didn’t pay in cash by any chance, did he?” Grantaire asked, and Joly gave him a questioning look.

“How did you know?”

“Grantaire and I were in the middle of a revelation about Sophie’s finances,” Enjolras explained, standing up straight. “Someone has been sending her cash secretly to pay for her rent and to get to the wedding.”

“Looks like we just found the source,” Grantaire said happily.

“Oh - _we’ve got more_ ,” Courfeyrac laughed, pausing the security footage, and looking up at the others. “The clerk who served them told us she overheard some of their conversation. Apparently Sophie was telling him that she didn’t want to go through with something - and that he’d said something like ‘after all I’ve done for you, you can’t back out now’.”

“She thought they could be talking about the wedding but…” Joly trailed off to the silence of the four men staring at each other.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire breathed.

* * *

Grantaire was lounging, like he always did. Enjolras thought it was an unprofessional stance to take when they were interviewing a suspect, but Grantaire continued to insist on it despite Enjolras’ many, _many_ , voiced disapprovals. Something about good cop, bad cop - eventually he’d learned to stop bothering him about it. He had to pick his battles, and Grantaire was one of the most stubborn men he’d ever met - that fight in particular, seemed futile.

And frankly, he had work to do.

“Do you recognise these papers, Mr Murphy?” Enjolras started, throwing down a folder in front of the man in question.

Edward ‘Teddy’ Murphy scowled from where he was seated across the table. He’d been in a foul mood ever since he’d been brought in by Joly and Courfeyrac earlier today, and he seemed to grow even more incensed when he started being questioned. “You went to my office?”

“I can assure you that we had a search warrant,” Enjolras replied, but this didn’t seem to satisfy the man in any sort of way.

“Look,” he said, leaning forward with a condescending stare. “I wouldn’t expect a layman like you to possibly understand the financial and legal obligations of an estate like Greg’s.”

After a beat, Grantaire offered, “I think he just called you stupid?” but Enjolras didn’t even blink.

“Greg’s grandparents established a trust fund that he was going to receive on his wedding day,” Enjolras continued, very matter of fact. “He named _you_ executor.” He titled his head then, and the corner of his lips threatened to quirk. “How am I doing at understanding it so far?”

Teddy remained silent.

Enjolras leant forward then, resting his hands on the table, and looming forward with a glint in his eye. “For the past five years you’ve been using his money to fund your lifestyle. A house in the Hamptons? A Ferrari?”

“Top of the line breast implants?” Grantaire interrupted. “I can only assume they weren’t for you.”

“My - my personal life is none of your business,” Teddy sputtered, but Enjolras was not impressed.

“It is when you’re stealing to fund it,” he said. “And especially when it leads to a murder.”

Teddy fell silent once more; so Enjolras kept going.

“You lost lots of money in the market - and when you ran out of your own you started using his. Then you burned through nearly two million dollars of _Greg’s_ money, and when he called you to tell you he was engaged, you went into a _panic_ -“

Grantaire watched on with a unique kind of amusement as Enjolras went in deeper and more passionately, and as sweat started to form on Teddy’s brow.

“ - you didn’t have enough equity to put that money back for Greg to inherit, did you, Mr. Murphy?” Enjolras finished, and Grantaire picked up.

“Only way to stop Greg finding out was to put off the wedding,” he said, still lounging back in his chair, with his arms crossed. “But how to do that when Floreal and Greg were in love? Then you met Sophie at the engagement party.”

“Sophie was exactly the girl you needed,” Enjolras tagged in again. “Poor and desperate enough for money that she’d do anything you asked. Like, perhaps, sneaking into Greg’s room to try and catch him cheating. With this video camera.”

He pulled out the other piece of evidence, sealed in a plastic bag, and held it up to Teddy’s face.

“We found it in your suitcase, Mr. Murphy,” Enjolras added, when the man refused to offer anything up to refute them.

“Shame you didn’t think to throw it even if you deleted the footage,” Grantaire said. “It had her fingerprints all over it.” He cocked his head then. “She didn’t get the footage you wanted, did she? She had a change of heart and ran back to her room, where _you_ were waiting for her.”

“Did she threaten to expose you?” Enjolras asked forcefully, leaning forward again. “Was she about to ruin everything - when you realised you could stop the wedding another way? By murdering a bridesmaid?”

Teddy suddenly found his voice again. “You’ve created quite a story,” he said, sitting back himself in faux confidence. “But that’s all it is - a story.”

“Thing is, Teddy,” Grantaire said, “is that we already told you we searched your luggage.”

As he was speaking, Enjolras had leant over and picked up one last final bagged piece of evidence. 

“Recognise this tie pin?” Enjolras asked then, holding it up. “Platinum. Which we also happened to find traces of in the wounds on Sophie’s back. I bet you didn’t even know you were making those wounds when you were choking her from behind.”

“If you did know, I don’t think you’d have kept the one piece of physical evidence that directly ties you to the crime,” Grantaire finished.

Teddy Murphy sat there for a few minutes, without saying much. His mouth opened and closed a few times, unable to form any response to this.

Then, finally, he choked out, “I demand a lawyer be present for this.”

Enjolras finally truly smiled then. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Murphy.”

* * *

It had been unfairly cold the past month in New York - the kind of cold that bites, and burrows its way down to your bones.

The day Floreal and Greg got married, the sun decided to appear through the clouds, and it warmed the crisp air everywhere that its beams reached.

Grantaire, Enjolras and the rest of the team, of course, had been invited this time round - the couple wouldn’t even consider a day without them all in attendance. Without them all, they insisted, there probably wouldn’t be a wedding.

And, of course, unspoken, if the threat of Uncle Teddy hadn’t been identified. It was hard to think of what else might have been destroyed if he hadn’t been caught.

Apparently it had been easier than they would have ever thought to reorganise it in a few weeks - the murder of a bridesmaid lends a couple some sympathy, even in a business as cutthroat as weddings. Most of the services had been happy enough to reschedule, and a new venue had been organised without a hitch.

Well - Grantaire had to do a bit of schmoozing, and _perhaps_ had put in a little of his own money to cover how last minute it all was, but Floreal didn’t need to know that. It somehow felt like the least he could do, after all the trauma and heartache she’d been through.

Greg too, now that he thought about it. Now that Teddy was in the process of being prosecuted, Grantaire was able to realise how much the groom must have been through as well. At some point or other in the investigation all facets of his life and personality were up for judgement, and in the end it nearly meant he’d lost everything he cared about - as it was, he’d lost an uncle he thought he could trust. 

So when he’d heard through the grapevine ( _okay_ \- he’d pestered their wedding planner) where they were trying to relocate to, there hadn’t even really been a question that he’d make sure they could have a beautiful wedding day. 

And thankfully, Grantaire thought as he looked out of the window onto the gorgeously decorated lawn as the winter sun beamed down - _thankfully_ , the universe thought the same. 

“Excuse me - uh - Grantaire?”

Grantaire was brought out of his reverie and turned away from the window. There were guests and groomsmen milling about everywhere, and most were starting to make their way outside for the ceremony. But stood directly behind him, and looking at him expectantly, was Greg Murphy.

“Can we talk?”

Grantaire had to blink a few times, but his voice came back to him after a moment. “Uh, sure,” he said, nodding, and followed Greg into an empty side room not so far away. 

“Can’t hold me for too long,” Grantaire joked, as the door shut behind them. “You need to be somewhere soon.”

Greg smiled, albeit weakly, and shifted a little awkwardly from foot to foot. If Grantaire didn’t know any better, he’d have thought he was nervous, of all things.

Finally, he spoke. “Aubrey - our planner - she, uh. She told me what you did,” he said.

Oh.

“It’s nothing, honestly,” Grantaire said quickly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t want either of you to know, I asked her not to tell you -“

“ - I kind of forced it out of her,” Greg confessed. He shifted again, subconsciously mirroring Grantaire and shoving his hands in his own pockets. “I knew they wouldn’t give us this place without us paying more and I - I was going to try and sort it out myself, only Aubrey said someone else had already paid…”

Grantaire shrugged. “It just…felt like the right thing to do.” He paused. “You know, considering everything that’s happened. Money’s not really an issue…and you deserved the wedding you wanted.”

“Well either way…thank you,” Greg said, and he finally looked up and met Grantaire’s gaze. “You didn’t have to do anything, but you did, so. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire replied after a beat.

They nodded together, in silence

“Floreal always told me what a good guy you were,” Greg started, and Grantaire found himself a little startled at where this conversation was going. “She told me all about you years ago, and she’s always reading your books, but uh…no offence dude, I saw you in the news sometimes and I thought you were a bit of an asshat.”

Finally, at least, they were on familiar ground. “You’re not the first or the last,” Grantaire snorted.

But Greg kept going.

“She told me what happened that night she went to go find you.”

Grantaire’s insides clenched uncomfortably. “She did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “She told me that she kissed you, and that you stopped it and you made sure she was okay.” Greg sighed and looked away finally. “I guess that’s about as much as I could ask for.”

“Me and Floreal,” Grantaire started, searching for the right words. “We’re not…we just used to be really important to each other as kids, and I think she got overwhelmed - “

Greg laughed quietly.

“I’m not mad,” he said. Then he thought for a moment. “Well, I’m not _happy_ about it, but I’m not mad. She laid it all out for me - how she was feeling, all about you and what you’re up to right now - and I laid it out for her too. It’s a shit thing we’ve just been through. But we’ve been through it, you know?” He smiled. “And we’re still getting married.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replied softly.

The sound of the door opening caught both their attention, and they both whipped their heads round in time to see Floreal, in all her bridal glory, shutting the door behind her.

“Oh God,” she said as she finally took them both in. “This isn’t terrifying or weird at all.”

Greg brightened, and moved towards her. “All’s good,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her towards him.

“Aren’t you meant to be walking down an aisle soon?” Grantaire asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hiding yourself before the big reveal?”

Floreal shrugged. “If I believed superstitions like that anymore I think we’d have given up on this whole wedding thing the first time around.”

“Point taken.”

She smiled. “Everything sorted, then?” she asked, her eyes flitting between the two men.

“Very sorted,” Greg said happily, his eyes completely focussed on his bride-to-be. “I just wanted to thank him for his help with everything.”

This made Floreal beam, and Grantaire would have felt weird being included in this intimate moment between them, if it wasn’t for the fact a few moments later Floreal held her hand out for him to take.

He took it, gently, and felt warm when her dainty little fingers squeezed his tightly. “We’re all back on track now, aren’t we?” she asked.

“We are,” Grantaire agreed, genuinely. 

“And you’d better invite us to _your_ wedding now too, you realise,” Floreal continued, still squeezing. 

Grantaire was about to laugh that off heartily in his own signature self-deprecating way, when Enjolras’ head popped round the door.

“Oh,” Enjolras said, opening the door further when he saw them. “There you all are - everyone’s out here looking for you for it to start.”

One last little grip, and Floreal let his hand go. 

“Well let’s get this show moving,” she said happily, picking up her skirts and pulling her fiancé to the door. 

Only she stopped briefly, and pulled Enjolras in - a hand on the juncture of his neck and shoulder as if she was bringing him in for a kiss on the cheek. She didn’t kiss him though - she murmured something softly into his ear, and before Grantaire could even think to strain to make it out, Floreal and Greg had left, leaving Enjolras staring confusedly after her.

After a beat, Grantaire nodded at the door. 

“Shall we?”

Enjolras’ relief was palpable. “Let’s.”

* * *

The reception was nice, for the brief time that they stopped there. Grantaire hadn’t spoken to Floreal much, if at all really - except for one hug and a murmured congratulations. She had a whole wedding full of people to be talking to, and she really deserved to enjoy her day with everyone she actually invited in the first place.

And in the end, Grantaire was happy enough to watch from afar with a champagne flute in hand. 

Well, multiple champagne flutes if he were to be totally honest, because when had he ever _not_ indulged in free booze. He, Joly and Courfeyrac had a grand old time, testing how many drinks they could realistically knock back without turning up back at the station completely wasted.

Enjolras had just stuck to the one, quietly standing next to them for the most part while the other three men had their good time. Grantaire had taken a minute to watch him every now and then, like he was waiting for Enjolras to do something - what exactly, he didn’t know, probably admonish him for drinking on the job or something like that - but Enjolras just continued to stand on, silently.

It was only slightly off-putting, but Grantaire supposed that it was a nice change of pace from the tumultuous sniping between the two of them over the course of this case. Someone who didn’t know them almost might comment that they looked like they were getting along.

There had been one incredible moment when Floreal stepped out of the crowd to throw her bouquet - and it had soared over the heads of eager bridesmaids and into the arms of an astounded Enjolras. 

Grantaire supposed he’d caught the flowers on instinct, seeing something flying towards his head and grabbing it without a second thought - but _he_ certainly wasn’t about to help Enjolras with excuses when the whole thing gave Courfeyrac so much ammunition to tease him with. 

Because, as always, Grantaire delighted in watching the scowling blond be gently prodded and bothered, even if it wasn’t him being the one to actually do it. 

But other than that, Enjolras had been rather oddly congenial - which, for Enjolras, Grantaire supposed meant being retiring and introspective, rather than the forthright, borderline aggressive man he mostly knew.

What was strange, Grantaire realised, was that he’d actually been this way since the day of their unspoken truce.

Enjolras continued in this quiet, contemplative state all the way back to the station, and was now sat at his desk, staring thoughtfully at the bouquet of flowers he’d carried all the way back there.

Grantaire was trying his best to not think about what that meant, but was failing miserably, as usual.

“I hope you realise Floreal has excellent aim,” Grantaire said loudly, after watching him sit there in voyeuristically for too long. “The reason you caught that was because she wanted you to.”

Enjolras jolted a little in his seat, clearly taken aback by Grantaire’s voice cutting through the silence - he looked up, a little in surprise, but settled back down after only a moment. 

“I get why the two of you got along so well now,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You both like to torment people for fun.”

“Oh no, never torment,” Grantaire replied with a toothy grin. “Only tease - voraciously.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes at this, but it was good-natured this time, Grantaire thought - after all these months he felt like he was starting to get the hang of noticing the difference. When he pulled up the chair opposite Enjolras, it felt comfortable, no longer the act of aggression sitting by him had once had been.

He picked up the flowers to inspect them, while Enjolras himself watched on in silence, reclined in his chair - his hands were folded over his stomach, and he looked pensive, miles away from the uptight officer Grantaire had quarrelled with over the past few weeks.

“I got to talk to Greg before the ceremony,” Grantaire said finally, dropping the flowers back down. Enjolras raised his eyebrows a little, but said nothing in response, so Grantaire continued. “Before you and Floreal came in - she told him what happened, and they talked about it all. And apparently even now he still doesn’t hate me? Which is a new one. Usually I end up with a black eye when I accidentally cuckhold somebody.”

Enjolras was looking at him funnily, only responding after catching Grantaire’s prompting look.

“Why do you sound a little bit disappointed?” he asked, his face contorted somewhere between amused and bewildered.

Grantaire barked out a laugh.

“My penchant for drama shining through, I guess,” he replied, which earned him a huff of a laugh from Enjolras. It wasn’t a real guffaw, granted, but it still felt like progress.

The two were silent for a few moments, and Enjolras bit his lip a little. He moved, as if to say something, and Grantaire tracked every movement with his eyes - eventually, Enjolras settled on something.

“How did it feel - watching her get married today?” he asked quietly.

Grantaire was more than a little taken aback by the question. He’d have expected this sort of thing from either Joly or Courfeyrac, but Enjolras had never really asked him about himself before - he’d never showed _any_ interest, let alone ask a question. It was entirely new territory that Grantaire hadn’t expected to be entering today.

“Weird, but - “ Grantaire grasped for the right words to say. He was quite suddenly desperate to articulate himself to Enjolras, to satisfy this unexpected curiosity he was showing. “ - a good weird, I think? I was nostalgic but I wasn’t…longing. She was happy, and that was good. It felt like a closure I didn’t know I needed.”

Enjolras looked thoughtful. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras started slowly, raising his gaze to meet Grantaire’s head on, their eyes locking in an intense stare. “I…apologise if I’ve been unduly harsh to you in this investigation.”

You could have knocked Grantaire over with a feather.

“No - it’s - “ Grantaire sputtered a little, shaking his head, eyes a little wider. “ - it’s fine? I mean, I never exactly do as you tell me a whole lot, and I know kissing someone in the case isn’t exactly professional -“

“No, it’s not,” Enjolras cut across him firmly, but his expression was still thoughtful. “But still, I know I can sometimes be a little…overbearing. And I think I let some of my own personal feelings cloud my judgement.”

And now Grantaire could literally feel his heart in his throat because _what did that mean, oh my God_ -

But Enjolras was still talking.

“I’ve had experience being too emotionally involved with a case,” Enjolras continued. “And I’ve been thinking today - that’s probably why I was so harsh. I hope you can forgive if I overstepped, but it’s something I feel quite strongly about.”

That powerful feeling of panic began to fade away a little, but Grantaire felt a small ebb of intrigue that began to overtake it. 

“No, sure - I - I get that. No hard feelings,” Grantaire replied, and these words seemed to settle something in Enjolras.

“Good,” Enjolras said softly, nodding to himself, and finally breaking away from Grantaire’s gaze.

The silence, a little bit more comfortable now, descended upon them once again. But Grantaire and his damn curiosity just couldn’t let it go, because he always needed to _know_ -

“So…what case made you feel that way?”

Grantaire almost regretted asking it as he watched Enjolras’ face fall. However comfortable he might have been before, Enjolras seemed to tense up all of a sudden - and Grantaire was immediately reminded of that day all those months ago in the briefing room, when he knew he’d pushed Enjolras too far.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to - “ Grantaire started, but Enjolras cut across him. 

“- No - it’s - it’s alright,” Enjolras said, frowning a little. His shoulders were tense, but he didn’t sound angry like Grantaire had expected him to. Surprised once again, Grantaire fell silent. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything.” 

Enjolras took a few seconds to gather himself, before he continued - like finally saying the words required all his strength.

“My mother - was murdered,” he said, quietly.

Grantaire felt his stomach drop, because _Jesus_ , how was he meant to react to something like that - and he must have let his horror show on his face given how quickly Enjolras continued.

“It’s alright, I promise,” Enjolras said hastily, looking down at his lap. “Like I said, it’s not a secret. And it was a long time ago - when I was in high school, even.”

But still Grantaire remained unnaturally silent, watching the other man with his mouth slightly agape. Enjolras swallowed awkwardly.

“The official story was that it was mugging gone wrong…she was stabbed in an alleyway on her way home. But they never figured out who did it, so the case was dropped.” 

Enjolras looked up then, slowly - but instead of looking back at his companion, Grantaire watched as the detective’s eyes landed on that trio of elephants on his desk. He paused there for long moment before he continued.

“I tried to - when I joined the force I had some idea that I’d re-open the case,” he said then, finally looking back up at Grantaire. “But I couldn’t get any further with it - and it was - well.” He smiled grimly. “It took me a lot of therapy to realise that if I didn’t come to terms with it being unsolved, it’d destroy me.”

The silence between them this time was heavy. Grantaire felt almost suffocated under the weight of what Enjolras had just revealed to him. He barely knew where to start in reply - which he could tell Enjolras was now expecting, given the wide-eyed and cautious look he was now watching him with. 

But what to say when he hadn’t been prepared for any of that.

“I hope you know that when I tried to come up with your backstory when we first met, I wasn’t purposefully trying to be a dick,” Grantaire settled on.

And well, Grantaire had never been known for being very comforting. Enjolras though, for what it was worth, snorted. 

“Yes, you were,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m only just starting to learn to stop taking it so personally.”

“I guess I deserve that,” Grantaire murmured, his eyes darting about awkwardly.

“I probably don’t have to explain why I don’t like to talk about it much,” Enjolras continued sardonically. He paused then, before adding, “I’m not used to strangers bringing that sort of stuff up with me. You…caught me off guard, that time.”

Grantaire raised a brow. “And I’m not a stranger anymore?”

Enjolras shrugged, as casual as he could manage given the subject of conversation. 

“You deserve an explanation,” he answered simply.

Grantaire nodded - he wasn’t sure he really understood where Enjolras was coming from (did he ever?), but after that sort of confession, he guessed he’d just have accept it for it was. 

After a moment, Grantaire asked casually, “So you’ve not looked into the case at all since?”

“Don’t do this, Grantaire,” Enjolras said immediately in a low voice.

“I’m just saying, time has passed, technology is better - you see good things coming out of re-opening cold cases sometimes - “

And Grantaire was genuinely only trying to help - he _thought_ he was being helpful - but Enjolras couldn’t listen to another word of it. He forcefully cut off Grantaire for good, silencing the man with harsh words and desperate eyes.

“Grantaire - you don’t understand - I _can’t,_ ” he pleaded, his voice cracking a little. 

Letting out a huff, Enjolras gripped the arms of his chair and propelled himself forward - he was leaning closer to Grantaire, suddenly desperation replacing his upset from only moments ago.

“I was not joking when I said what revisiting the case would do to me,” he grit out, eyes glinting dangerously. “It would kill me. I can’t do it. So _please_ \- don’t push me on it.”

Grantaire swallowed. 

“Sure,” he said eventually, quietly.

Enjolras looked a little calmer again at least at that assurance - his ability to flare up hot and cool down again straight after seemed to be one of his unique skills - but his gaze was still as sharp as it was before. When he continued, his voice was low and foreboding. 

“If you touch my mother’s case, I won’t forgive you,” he warned, and Grantaire nodded.

“Noted,” he said genuinely, offering an apologetic smile.

Enjolras sighed a little, but seemed to accept it.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

* * *

 “You realise this whole situation is fucked, right?” Bahorel said, when Grantaire finally got home and finally explained to him everything had happened over the past few weeks.

Grantaire rolled his eyes at his roommate from where he was lounging on the couch, glass of scotch in hand. 

“It’s all good now,” he explained, waving a hand around vaguely. “Floreal is married, we caught the killer, and I finally might have found common ground with Enjolras. Everyone is happy.”

Bahorel levelled Grantaire with a look.

“What?” Grantaire asked.

“So there’s nothing that’s the least bit unresolved between you and your detective,” Bahorel said, still looking at Grantaire with the same incredulous expression. 

“He’s not ‘my’ detective,” Grantaire said quickly, but then shrugged. “And what else is there to resolve?”

Bahorel was silent for a moment, opening and closing his mouth a few times, searching for the right words. 

Finally, he just said, “You know what - I’m not even getting involved. You’re smart, you’ll get there eventually.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Grantaire asked with a laugh, but Bahorel shook his head.

“Nope,” he said, taking a sip from his own drink. “I’m not doing it.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to press his friend again, but he felt his phone buzz in his pocket - it was Jehan calling him, and Grantaire knew better than to ignore it. Rolling his eyes at Bahorel, he stood up from the couch, drink in hand, and moved into his office.

“Sup!” was Grantaire’s greeting as he fell gracefully into his office chair, and he could practically hear Jehan’s smile on the other end.

“Hello you,” Jehan replied. “I have good news.”

Grantaire sat up a little. “How good?”

“Everyone loves the first draft,” he said with no preamble. “Me included - you’re going to have to come down to the office to talk contracts for a series commission.”

“Well shit,” Grantaire said faintly. He was shaking his head a little as he searched for the words. “Even without publishing the first one?”

“You’re bankable now, kid,” Jehan explained, happily. “And besides didn’t you hear me? We loved it. Rick Angel is quite the character.”

“Yeah, he - “ Grantaire swallowed a little. “Yeah, he is.”

“If I knew sending you out with cops would’ve given you this much inspiration I would have done it years ago,” Jehan continued. His voice turned soft after a moment as he added, “It was nice reading something new from you, you know? It felt like you really cared about it.”

And Grantaire - well - he wasn’t sure he could respond to that last bit, so he just tried to pretend he hadn’t even heard it.

“There’s no shortage of material for crime writing in that precinct,” he said instead. “Did I tell you that that whole scene in the book where they found the body covered in caramel actually happened? It was _wild,_ let me tell you.”

Jehan sounded amused when he replied. “All I know is if it keeps you writing this well, you’d better not be leaving there any time soon.”

And finally, Grantaire allowed himself a little self-indulgent smile.

“I don’t plan to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao I started writing this in February, there is no excuse for me to have taken THIS long writing it. I can only apologise. Also I can't believe I'm nearly at a nanowrimo length story and i'm only on chapter two. This fic is ridiculously long, but I hope you're enjoying it all the same. Sorry updates are probably going to be few and far between, but I h

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions can be directed to my tumblr (grantairesbottle.tumblr.com) or the comments.


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